


Standards of Performance

by catharinaa



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Boss/Employee Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Dom!Hotch, Dom/sub, Eventual Smut, F/M, Jealous Aaron Hotchner, Like When I Say Slow I Mean Slow, On a case, Reader-Insert, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Tagging as I go, Watch me make stuff up about criminal psychology, canon is a suggestion not a rule, sub!Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25175479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catharinaa/pseuds/catharinaa
Summary: You're the BAU's newest intern, desperate to prove yourself amongst an established team of much more experienced profilers. Agent Hotchner, the seemingly infallible team leader, sets strict expectations for your performance. He commands your respect without even trying, but is there something more to your relationship than a simple desire to impress your stony-faced boss?
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & Reader, Aaron Hotchner/Reader, Aaron Hotchner/You
Comments: 221
Kudos: 611





	1. Coffee Stains and Neckties

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, my first post on my new AO3! This has been jumping around in my head for a while, but quarantine has given me much more time to watch Criminal Minds and fantasize, so it finally got written. A few notes:
> 
> \- This is a slow burn. Like, slow. However, there will be smut, and lots of it, so prepare for delayed gratification. I'll aim to update weekly and come up with an exact schedule when I get further in.  
> \- Speaking of smut, I'll add more specific smut tags as I go so as to not spoil anything. I will let you know upfront that the primary dynamic is dom!Hotch and sub!Reader, though. And it will be explicit, so if that's not your thing, be aware!  
> \- I know jack shit about criminal psychology, so anything written within is probably not factual, but it at least sounds like it makes sense in my head.  
> \- Haley AND Jack are dead in this one, whoops. Kids aren't my jam, sorry Hotch :(  
> \- This may divert from canon in team makeup/timing of events/etc., and the cases and events within are all my own writing.
> 
> Lastly and most importantly, thank you all for reading! I don't have a beta reader at the moment, but I do my best to clean everything up before posting. This is also available on my tumblr, [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thedumpsterqueen). Please let me know your thoughts, I love you all! <3 :)

“Fucking SHIT!”

You cursed as you felt the (very, _very_ ) hot coffee soak your new skirt. Grabbing as many paper towels as you could with one hand, you tried to sop up the mess on the floor. The stain on your outfit? A shame, but nothing compared to marring the assuredly expensive cream color of the BAU’s breakroom carpet.

A low chuckle sounded off behind you, and you froze. 

_For the love of god, please don’t be_ … 

“Morgan! Please tell me you have carpet cleaner, oh my god. I don’t even know how that happened.”

Morgan grinned, as he typically did, sauntering into the breakroom with his hands in his pockets. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, the janitor's got it later. I was looking for you, team meeting in five. You all good? You look a little - ” he paused, probably searching for a descriptor that wouldn’t sting too bad, “ - rushed.”

You stood up, sighing. He was right, after all. You had stayed up late last night poring over psychology textbooks and only just woken up in time to leave your apartment. As the BAU’s newest profiling intern - whatever the hell that actually meant - the pressure of performing to seasoned profilers’ standards manifested in spending practically all your free time buried in research. Hence why your hair was coated in unbelievable amounts of dry shampoo, you were wearing your unflatteringly oversized glasses instead of your usual contacts, and why your frantic attempt at pouring yourself a cup of coffee when you got into work had resulted in the giant wet spot currently soaking your skirt.

At least the skirt was black.

“You’re right. Late night,” you said, rolling your eyes at Morgan’s suggestive eyebrow waggle.

“Not like that, I wish. Just trying to catch up. Don’t really want to repeat last week’s disaster,” you mumbled, referring to the first time you actually got to question a suspect, which had ended up with a wad of saliva hawked in your face. It was only your third week in the position, but damn, if that hadn’t let the wind out of your sails a bit.

“Hey, what did I tell you then?” Morgan asked, as you walked out of the breakroom together. “You’re not a true profiler until you get assaulted by a serial killer!”

“I’m not a true profiler until I finish the _year long_ training program,” you pointed out, “so I think I could do without the spit in the meantime.”

Morgan laughed, opening the door of the team’s briefing room for you. “Well if we’d known you were gonna be so picky, we might have gone with someone else.”

“Who’s picky?” asked Emily, looking up from her seat.

While Morgan laughed and launched into a dramatic retelling of the event as if the entire team hadn’t already fucking seen it in real time, you took your seat at the table. Reid nodded in acknowledgment, and you returned it with a small smile. Damn if he wasn’t handsome, and ridiculously smart to boot, but you were pretty sure your chances with him withered and died when you asked him what he was doing after work last Friday and he answered with, “Reading.” Point taken.

Hotch swiveled in his chair to face the table and you suddenly became acutely aware of how much of a mess you probably looked. It’s not that you cared about his opinion regarding your general appearance beyond the basic standard of professional attire, but his always-intense gaze and stony expression had a way of making you second guess even your most confidently held opinions.

“Sit,” he said, his voice cutting through the rest of the team’s animated chatter.

It would have been hard not to notice how quickly they obliged, not out of fear, but rather a respect and deference so deeply ingrained that it almost gave you goosebumps. You’d never thought of yourself as a follower, per say, but if Hotch was what a leader looked like, you certainly didn’t fit into that category either. 

He scanned the table, stopping on you. “New glasses?” he asked, with a single, slightly raised eyebrow.

“I, um, not really, just didn’t have time to put my contacts in,” you stammered.

“Hm,” Hotch said, “They look nice.” 

Your cheeks suddenly felt hot, and you thanked him quickly, looking down at your shoes to conceal the pink that was probably spreading across your face. Hotch had a way of speaking that made everything he said sound like the absolute truth, which was probably why such an innocuous little compliment had disarmed you so much. 

_Still though, jesus christ. Get it the fuck together. You’re not Reid; you’re not smart enough to be this awkward._

Hotch, blessedly ignoring how painful you just made that interaction, addressed the team while JJ passed out files. “We have a new case. Three bodies, all found completely drained of blood in various woods, off hiking trails. Cause of death appears to be blood loss from severed carotid arteries, meaning they were likely strung up and drained before being moved to where they were discovered.”

Reid spoke up first. “Erm, what exactly do you mean by _various_ woods?”

“That’s the unusual thing,” Hotch said, pulling up a map of the southwestern United States on the screen behind him. "Each body was found in a different state, one here, one here, and one here,” pointing to spots in California, Arizona, and Nevada. “However, local police discovered the bodies within hours of each other due to anonymous tip offs, and medical examiners estimate approximately the same time of death for all three.”

Morgan whistled lowly. “So what you’re saying is, this guy kills three victims around the same time and takes a road trip to hide their bodies in places he _knows_ won't be discovered until he calls in.”

“That’s how it appears, yes,” Hotch confirmed.

Rossi shook his head, twirling a pen that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe. “So, how are we splitting this up?”

You whipped your head in his direction. Splitting up? Of course, you should have known it’d only make sense considering the ground to be covered, but your quick mental calculations told you that there were six of them, evenly split into three groups of two, and one odd man out, both in skill and number - you.

“So, who’s getting stuck with me?” you asked, trying to beat everyone to the punch. Not that any of them would voice it, but if you couldn’t project confidence, you figured self-awareness would do. 

When you entered the internship as a recent college grad around a month ago, you knew you’d be in way over your head. Everyone else on the team was a seasoned expert, and you were a 20-something with a degree in psychology who somehow managed to charm her way through the interviews of the BAU’s flagship internship program. It’s not that you weren’t smart, you were, of course, but _comparatively_? You were pretty sure this was shaping up to be a glorified babysitting program, and you were the baby.

“Oh, hush,” JJ said, smiling and shaking her head. You smiled back. JJ had gone out of her way to make you feel welcome, which you were unspeakably grateful for. Between her and Morgan, you sometimes felt like maybe when this year was done, you could actually belong on this team. 

Hotch interrupted your pity party. “Rossi, you’re with Reid in Phoenix. JJ and Emily, you’re going to Vegas. Morgan, you and I are going to San Diego.” 

He turned to you. “You’re coming with me.”

Your stomach flipped at his words. You knew he had the most to teach you, and you could observe him coordinating the entire investigation from San Diego, but the idea of your performance being directly scrutinized by your boss in such a small group made you more nauseous than excited. 

“Please be aware,” he continued, “Garcia is going to have to deal with three times the inquiries as normal. I recommend you only contact her if the information you’re searching for is genuinely too difficult to find yourself.” He gave Morgan a pointed look, to which Morgan raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning.

“We’ll drop teams off as we go,” Hotch said. “Wheels up in thirty.”

____________

As you settled into your seat on the plane, your mind spun, trying to review every piece of psychology knowledge you’d ever encountered. This wasn’t your first case, but it was the first one you got to travel for, which made it feel much more _real_. 

The hours ticked by as the team reviewed the case. You contributed - not much, and nothing they wouldn’t have thought of without you - but it was something. Narcissist, craves attention and spotlight, physically confident enough to detain and murder three women at the same time. The method was throwing the team for a loop, however. Bleeding the victims out was clinical, relatively painless - uncharacteristic of the sexual injuries found on the corpses and the bravado with which the killer executed the rest of the crime. 

When you, Hotch, and Morgan trudged off the plane in San Diego, you had been going at the potential profile for hours and even Morgan’s patience was wearing thin.

“Look, Hotch, let’s hold off on speculation until we see the crime scene in person, alright?”

Hotch nodded, and took that as a cue to head straight to the crime scene. You groaned internally - having barely showered this morning and spent half the day on a plane, your greasy hair and coffee-stained skirt would have greatly benefited from a stop at the hotel to freshen up.

_It’s not like you have to look good to go stare at a patch of dirt where a dead body used to to be though, right?_

____________

Turns out the aforementioned patch of dirt was actually a wooded grove off a hiking trail leading to a nude beach, much to Morgan’s delight. The site itself was uninteresting except for the way the body had been buried - covered up very securely, implying remorse, another characteristic that didn’t make sense with the initial profile.

This commonality between all three crime scenes was hotly debated on the video conference between the entire team when you got back to the hotel. Cross legged on the bed in Hotch’s hotel room, you listened to Reid and Rossi snipe back and forth on the laptop about what the burial method could mean for ten-plus minutes (“It’s clearly just a functional tool to properly hide the body, Reid.” “But you don’t know that, the significance of burial practices can tell us so much more beyond _function_ , it can even tell us about his religious upbringing…”) before Hotch put a stop to it. 

“What do you think?” Hotch asked you, turning and looking directly into your gaze. You were suddenly hyperware of the proximity between you two - sitting close enough on the edge of the bed that your thighs were almost touching. Morgan had abandoned his position on the other side of you to stretch out in the armchair by the window halfway through Rossi and Reid’s debate. Hotch’s eyes boring into yours from only a few feet away and the expectant silence of the other team members on the video call spiked your heart rate, and you took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself.

“I… agree with Dr. Reid. I think it means something. The position of the hands, they were crossed across the chest, right? He didn’t need to do that. I don’t know if it means he was remorseful, but it was on purpose. I think.”

Hotch nodded, not breaking eye contact. “Good. Let's move forward with that theory.” He turned back to the laptop. “Let me know how interviews with the loved ones go tomorrow. Let’s find the connection between the victims. Call me if you need anything.” After shutting the laptop, he turned to you and Morgan. “Let’s call it for tonight. Meet me in the lobby at 7 tomorrow.”

Having been excused, you and Morgan made your way to your hotel rooms next to Hotch’s. Morgan wished you goodnight, and you unlocked your door and practically sprinted into your shower.

After you got out, you looked around the room, towel drying your hair. It was nice, much nicer than anywhere you’d ever stayed. The abstract art on the walls and the modern, clean white lines of the furniture were lit by the soft glow of the sunset filtering through the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony overlooking the ocean. You poured yourself a glass of wine from the minibar ( _a reimbursable travel expense, right?_ ) and stepped onto the balcony, breathing in the ocean air.

“Nice night, hm?”

You jumped, nearly spilling your drink down your front for the second time in less than 24 hours. Hotch was sitting in a chair on his balcony to the left of yours, reclining with his hands behind his head. Despite wearing nothing but your thin hotel robe, you felt the urge to avert your eyes from _him_. His suit jacket was shucked, tie undone and hanging around his neck, and the top two buttons of his white, collared shirt were unbuttoned. You felt like you were seeing something you shouldn’t have, like the cold stoniness of his exterior had shifted just slightly and allowed you a glimpse underneath.

_It’s just a couple buttons, calm down. You’re the one who’s barely clothed in front of your fucking boss._

“It is. Shame we can’t go to the beach,” you replied, keeping your eyes forward.

_Oh my god, three women were murdered and I just complained to my boss about not being able to go to the beach._

“You’re welcome to get up early and go tomorrow; might be a bit cold,” Hotch replied. You could tell from his voice he was smiling.

You mumbled in affirmation, continuing to avoid glancing in his direction. “Well, I just wanted to see the view, um, I’m gonna get to bed. Goodnight, Agent Hotchner!” You ducked back into your room, and you could have sworn you heard him chuckle before you slid the door shut.

After getting ready, beating yourself up mentally for your complete social incompetence, and tucking in under the plush, white duvet, you drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, let me know what you think! I appreciate every one of you who takes the time to read this. I have most of the next chapter written already so it will likely be up soon! And so the slow burn begins, hehe...


	2. Fuck-ups and Textbooks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You narrow in on the pool of suspects while desperately trying to convince yourself that dream psychology is a pseudoscience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mere 24 hours after the first chapter was posted, my hyperfixated ass presents Chapter 2! Thank you so much for your lovely kudos and comments on Chapter 1, both here and on my [tumblr](https://thedumpsterqueen.tumblr.com/). I'll make it a goal to update every Friday from now on, more often if possible. :)
> 
> Sidenote: this chapter is _slightly_ explicit, and from now on, it's safe to assume any chapter could contain explicit content. I don't want to use individual chapter warnings for fear of spoiling anything since it's a slow burn. Thanks all!!!

_A man stood above you, backlit, so you couldn’t see his face. You were laid supine, staring up at him - vulnerable, but unafraid. He spoke to you, but his voice and words were indistinct, muffled, as if you were underwater._

_He knelt over you, placing one hand to the side of your head. It was silent, still, unmoving except for the dim lights shifting behind him. You felt your breath quicken as the figure shifted almost imperceptibly closer. His tie fell forward, dangling over your chest. It was a beautiful cerulean blue, silky and expensive looking. You reached up to touch it, and the man caught your wrist in a firm grip._

_“No,” he said, his words clearer but his voice still indistinct. Low, deep, familiar… but you couldn’t place it._

_He released your hand and moved his to your waist, lightly caressing, stroking downward until he caught your hipbone. Your pulse quickened and you gasped and arched upward into his touch, feeling his fingers dig in tighter in response._

_“I thought so,” he murmured, swinging one leg over to cage your body with his. The hand that wasn’t gripping your hip wove into your hair and came to rest at the base of your skull, pulling your head up as he leaned down to catch your mouth with his…_

Your phone alarm blared, waking you with a start. The dream slipped away, leaving you alone in your hotel bed, a noticeable wetness between your legs.

“God fucking damn it; I can’t have anything,” you muttered, throwing off your blanket and hopping into the shower. You hadn’t dreamed about sex in a while, hadn’t _thought_ about sex in a while, too preoccupied with proving yourself at work. The dream left a longing in its wake, one that would unfortunately have to be addressed at a later time, because you stayed in the shower far too long and needed to meet Hotch and Morgan downstairs.

____________

You bustled into the lobby, clutching your case files and coffee. The others stood by the front entrance, facing away, seemingly discussing something amongst themselves. Hotch turned at the sound of your heels clicking towards them. You smiled, nodding your head in greeting, and-

_Oh my god._

You froze in your tracks, face feeling suddenly numb. You registered Hotch frowning in confusion, but you couldn’t say anything to reassure him, not yet.

_His tie._

It was the same one, the one that draped over your bare chest in the dream last night, the one attached to the man who you’d been thinking about all morning despite never seeing his face. The same one that hung loosely around Hotch’s neck last night on the balcony, the one that made you feel so voyeuristic that you couldn’t make conversation with him knowing its unknotting exposed his throat, making him appear stripped _bare_ in comparison to the tailored suits he practically lived in. 

“You alright, kiddo?” Morgan asked. “I mean, I know I’m a stop-you-in-your-tracks kinda guy, but I woulda thought you’d be used to that by now, huh?”

Morgan’s lighthearted cockiness gave you the boost you needed to shake your head and keep walking forward. “Sorry, thought I forgot my phone. I’m good. Let’s go, what’s the plan?”

Hotch seemingly accepted your answer, but kept his eyes on you as you got into the car. “Local police have rounded up friends and family of the California victim at the station. I’d like you to take the lead on interviews today. Morgan and I will be available should you have any questions, but we’re going to search our victim’s apartment first. Is that alright?”

It wasn’t actually a question, of course, but you gave verbal confirmation just the same. After the incident last week, you wanted a chance to prove yourself in an interview setting with a slightly less hostile subject.

They dropped you off at the station with instructions to compare notes with Prentiss, JJ, Reid, and Rossi after each interview. After setting up the room and conducting a tearful conversation with the victim’s mother, your first interview of the day, a conference call with the others in Arizona and Nevada revealed that the team had missed something big in the initial review of victims: they had all attended the same small, liberal arts college in San Diego.

“So, uh, who wants to tell Hotch?” asked Emily over the phone. Silence on the line, but you could tell what the others were thinking - no one wanted to be the one to deliver the news that you had overlooked such a clear commonality in the victim profiles - one that could have led you to an obvious suspect pool hours ago.

“The most fair way to decide this would be a random selection tool, here, I can pull one up on my phone,” replied Reid, accompanied by tapping sounds as he typed something in.

“No, she can do it, she’s with Hotch already,” said Rossi. “Let’s not waste time on this. Let us know what he says.” The others murmured their sympathies, but ended the call just the same, satisfied with avoiding Hotch’s quiet brand of wrath for the time being.

Sighing, you slumped in your chair in the interview room. _Best to just get it over with_. You dialed and held your breath, but not for long, as he picked up on the first ring.

“What did you find?” he asked, expectant.

“I just got off the phone with the others, and, it… it looks like they all attended the same college. PLNU, here in San Diego.”

A few beats of complete silence on the other end. You cringed, holding the phone away from your head like it was a bomb about to go off. 

After what felt like ages, he responded. His voice was low, stern as always, but it had a clipped quality that you recognized as the closest you’d ever seen Agent Hotchner get to rage. “How did we not find this out during preliminary research?” he asked.

“Well, um, two of them didn’t actually graduate from there, so it wasn’t immediately obvious,” you offered.

More silence.

“I’m sorry, sir, you’re right though, we should have figured this out earlier. I’m sorry, I’ll -”

He interrupted you. “Thank you, I’ll tell Garcia to get a suspect pool together.” Line dead.

You sighed and laid your head in your hands. As far as tough conversations go, that was easy on the surface - hell, you’d had bosses _scream_ at you when you worked retail for something much less consequential. But Hotch was different - he commanded respect without demanding it, and he had a way of making you feel like the only true measure of success was his praise, and by that same vein, his disappointment made you feel like an utter failure. For a man so cold and closed off, he drew the attention and admiration of everyone around him. When you started your internship, JJ had filled you in on what happened to his family - both wife and child murdered by one of their subjects. You weren’t sure how a man who had gone through that was still standing, much less working in the field that exposed them to that danger in the first place. But that was Aaron Hotchner, right? There was a reason that any member of his team would take a bullet for him without a second thought.

You’d only known him for a month, but you thought you probably would too.  


____________

The rest of the interviews progressed smoothly, and you found out through conversation with your fellow team members that all three victims had taken a class with the same TA. One of them had mentioned a creepy teaching assistant to her friends at one point or another, shaping this up to hopefully be a pretty clear case of unhinged stalkerdom. Why the grandiosity in transporting and hiding the bodies no one was quite sure, but you, Morgan, and Hotch were on your way to his house along with a SWAT team to figure that out.

When you pulled up outside his address, a little yellow bungalow in La Jolla, you felt your upper lip start to sweat. Morgan and Hotch were pulling on their vests, checking their guns, and you, an intern without weapons privileges (or training, for that matter) were hiding behind the corner of the SUV. 

“Remember, we don’t know if this is our guy!” Morgan yelled to the other officers. “We need him alive, don’t go shooting for no reason, got it?”

Hotch turned to you hurriedly before they moved across the street to enter the home. “You okay?” he asked, placing his hand on your upper arm.

You nodded, chewing on your bottom lip. 

“You’ll be fine,” he reassured you, looking into your face intently. "There’s several officers waiting with you out here, this will take less than two minutes.”

You nodded again, unsure how to tell him that you weren’t afraid for yourself, but for them. For _him_. He was indestructible, fearless, more than twice your age with more than 20 times the experience in the field. But you still felt an innate urge to be there, to protect him in case something went wrong.

_His potential as a cult leader is really being wasted at the BAU. Hell, I’d die for him._

Therapy, you decided. You needed therapy. 

Hotch nodded, oblivious to your internal conflict, dropped his hand from your arm, and headed towards the house with the others. You heard Morgan yell, a loud bang as he presumably kicked the door in, and more shouting. Your breath hitched in your throat as you counted the seconds, dreading the sound of gunshots. 

Luckily, it didn’t come. They exited the house, striding towards you. Hotch’s hair had been disheveled in the commotion, falling onto his forehead. He raked it back with one hand, sighing. 

“Nothing. Doesn’t look like he fled, but Garcia didn’t mention anything about him being at work during this time. Morgan’s gonna call her and see if she can find a location; let’s search the house.”

You nodded and followed him, feeling guilty for your overwhelming sense of relief that the suspect hadn’t been home. Morgan stood in the front yard, charming Garcia on the phone. You smiled. It was only a matter of time before those two stopped being idiots and admitted their love for each other; you couldn’t imagine being one of the more seasoned team members that has dealt with their antics for years.

Trailing Hotch through the front door, you noticed immediately how… bare the home was. The furniture was all standard IKEA gray (you recognized it, having furnished your apartment on a budget), the walls were absent of any decoration, and there wasn’t a single knick-knack or distinguishing piece that made it appear as if someone actually lived there. The obvious plainness stood in stark contrast to the sunny exterior and palm trees and other greenery surrounding the home. 

Morgan strode in behind you, apparently having concluded his flirting session. “Cozy, huh?”

You nodded. You didn’t have much experience profiling suspects’ living quarters, but you didn’t need to be an expert to know that something was _off_ here.

“Split up. Take the bedroom,” Hotch directed, nodding in your direction. “Tell me if you find anything.”

The bedroom was just as unremarkable as the rest of the house. You tore through drawers of neatly folded clothing, pulled out mounds of blank notebooks from the desk, dug through a trashcan filled to the brim with just tissues (you truly _didn’t_ want to know), and just when you were sure there was absolutely nothing of import to discover about this guy, you pulled up the corner of the mattress to find what must have been dozens of books on criminal psychology stacked within the bedframe. 

The suspect was very notably _not_ a TA for a criminal psychology class.

“Uh, Agent Hotchner? Sir? I think I found something,” you called out.

Hotch appeared in the doorway. “Show me.”

You pulled up the corner of the mattress, gesturing for him to look underneath. Moving closer, he placed his hand on your lower back, and looked over your shoulder.

“Criminal psychology?” he asked, unmoving.

You nodded, glued to your position, breathing shallowly, wanting to move to examine the books but effectively pinned between Hotch and the foot of the bed. Your gaze shifted to the left slightly, and you were met with an eye level view of-

_That fucking tie. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-_

He moved away to pull the stack of books out of its hiding place, and the muscles in your lower back where his hand was resting suddenly relaxed. You berated yourself internally for being so weird around him - it was a tie, for fuck’s sake, something that your mind had picked up on yesterday and inserted purposelessly into your dream. 

_Dream psychology is bullshit_ , you reassured yourself for probably the hundredth time today.

Hotch began to leaf through the books, and you saw that certain passages had been intensely highlighted and circled, with notes scribbled in the margins. He paused to read a few of them before snapping the textbook he was holding shut and standing up. 

“Let’s get these packed up and go through them back at the hotel. It’s getting late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's safe to say that if Hotch did start a cult, I'd be the first to join. I'm so excited to hear your thoughts, thank you again for reading!!!


	3. Boundaries and Text Messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You discover that the unsub isn't what he seems, and overstep some boundaries you probably shouldn't have.

Back in Hotch’s hotel room, the three of you were sitting on the ground, surrounded by textbooks and torn-out pages covered in the seemingly mindless scrawls of the suspect. Well, you and Morgan were on the floor; Hotch was at the desk chair. Hotch wasn’t really a sit-on-the-floor type of person.

Morgan groaned and rubbed his temples for the third time in an hour. “It means nothing, man. He researched all this shit so he could commit the crimes in a way that would fuck with us.”

Hotch sighed and nodded in agreement. “It certainly seems that way. That explains the inconsistencies in the profile. However, we can still understand the subject by the signatures he chose.” He pointed to a scribbled note in a textbook section about the psychology surrounding different methods of murder: “ **Slashing throat? Effective + easy.** ”

He looked at you. “What can this note tell us about our subject?”

“Um, it doesn’t sound like the cause of death is important to him. Like it’s just something he needs to do. A necessity. Right?” you responded, somewhat unprepared for this sort of pop quiz.

“Exactly. And this tells us more about him. This isn’t about the kill; it’s about what he does beforehand. It’s about the rape,” Hotch said. “Don’t be so humble. You know more than you think you do.”

Your face felt hot, and you looked at the floor - an increasingly regular occurrence around him.

Morgan spoke up, still visibly exasperated. “If he spent so much time trying to throw us off, why did he pick victims that were so easy to tie to him?”

“He’s an idiot?” you offered before you could stop yourself.

_Really professional. Holy shit, please shut up._

The faintest trace of a smirk graced Hotch’s face. “You’re not entirely wrong. He isn’t particularly intelligent, based on the information we’ve gathered so far. Not nearly as complex as we initially assumed.”

“Yeah, well, either way, he’s a nut. And Gracia can’t find anything about where he might be, and I’m starving,” Morgan said, standing up. “I’m gonna pick something up. You guys want anything?”

“Get me whatever looks good,” replied Hotch, focused on whatever written ramblings he was currently dissecting.

“You?” Morgan asked you.

“Just get me whatever you get him,” you said. “Thanks, Morgan.”

Morgan nodded and grabbed his jacket. “Be back soon.”

He closed the door, leaving you alone with your boss that you definitely _didn’t_ have an erotic dream about the night before. You tried to focus on the textbook, but the words swam. After a few minutes, you huffed and set the book down.

“Shouldn’t we be looking for him right now instead of reading his weird psychobabble?”

Hotch looked up from his work with a raised eyebrow.

You continued, “I just mean, isn’t it more important to stop him from killing again? We already know he did it based on the stuff he wrote in the books, we don’t need to fully understand his motivations to confirm that.”

“Yes,” Hotch said, “but these offenders rarely cease their behavior out of nowhere. His appetite is alarming; he took three victims at once. We don’t know if those were even his first assaults or kills. Given that Garcia couldn’t locate any family or friends, we have no idea where he might be, so our time is best spent learning how to predict his actions and respond if someone else goes missing.”

He was correct, of course, but it just didn’t feel right - like you were sitting and waiting for something terrible to happen before you could do anything. Hotch must have sensed your frustration, because he leaned forward towards you, elbows resting on his knees, and continued in a slightly softer tone, “I know you feel helpless. We all do in situations like these. But trust me, we’re accomplishing more here than we would be trying to canvas the entire city.”

“I know,” you mumbled. “You’re right. It’s just, seeing the photos of those girls, knowing the type of person that’s out there, it’s hard to convince myself I’m doing enough just sitting here.”

“You’re not just sitting here, and you know that,” Hotch said, sternly. “You’re doing your job. People will die with or without us; our job isn’t to save them. It’s to catch the people that kill them.”

“But how do you deal with it?” you asked, growing more bold than you probably should be. You weren’t just asking about this case anymore, and you weren’t sure whether or not you wanted him to understand that. You wanted to ask him how _he_ did it - how he woke up every morning alone, how he suffered an unimaginable loss at the hands of some of the purest evil society could produce and went back to the job that showed him more of that evil every day.

Judging by the hard set of his jaw, he knew exactly what you were getting at.

“I do it because I have to,” he said. Every word sounded measured, like he was explaining something he had dozens of times before.

“You don’t,” you whispered, but you knew you were wrong, at least to him. You knew he felt it was his responsibility to shoulder the burden so other families didn’t have to experience what he did. You had a background in psychology, and this was pretty low hanging fruit. A therapist would have a field day with him, but you weren’t a therapist, and you certainly weren’t in any position to tell your boss, a leader with decades of experience in the field, that he shouldn’t be taking all of this on.

He evidently didn’t find your comment worthy of a response, as he went back to picking through the pile of evidence. You’d hit a nerve though - his posture was more rigid, his almost-permanent scowl even more pronounced. The tension built with every second of silence, and you suddenly wished you could go back and erase the conversation.

Thinking better of trying to repair the damage you’d done, you kept the subsequent conversation focused on the profile. By the time Morgan got back, you had a fairly good idea of the suspect’s psychology, and after a quick break for fried rice and a video chat with the team, JJ set up to deliver a press conference from the police precinct in Vegas. Hotch switched on the news on the hotel TV, and you sat back to watch.

“The man currently suspected of committing the triple homicide that left bodies here in Vegas, in Phoenix, and in San Diego is an obsessive sexual predator,” JJ said to a waiting crowd of reporters and police. “He displays characteristics of a stalker, and women who interact with him may describe him as creepy or off-putting. Though murder is not his ultimate goal - in fact, he may not be completely comfortable with the act - he views it as a necessary step to dispose of his victims post-assault.”

“Do we usually do this?” you whispered to Morgan, “Release the whole profile publicly?”

“Nah, but with this guy, we want him to know we’re onto him,” he said back, trying not to disturb Hotch, who was watching JJ’s address intently. “He put so much effort into throwing us off, we gotta let him know we see through his bullshit. It’s the only play we got right now, considering we got no idea where he is.”

You turned back to the screen, where JJ had moved on to talking about the suspect. “His name is Ellory Matthews,” she said, holding up his ID photo. “He’s a 24 year old white male, about 5’9” and 200 pounds. We have strong reason to suspect he is involved and currently trying to evade the police. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous, so if you see him, please do not approach and call 911 immediately.”

Hotch, apparently having heard enough, stood up and turned off the TV. “Hopefully someone has seen him and can tell us where he is. If not, this should be enough to scare him into making a mistake.”

You tried not to think about the fact that a mistake still probably involved someone being hurt or killed.

“Get some rest. I’ll clean up here. Morgan, before you head to bed, call Garcia again and see if she’s found anything that can point us to where he might be.”

“Got it, I’ll let you know. Night, Hotch,” Morgan said.

You echoed Morgan and headed back to your room.

____________

After getting ready and tucking into bed, you found yourself completely unable to fall asleep. The conversation with Hotch kept replaying in your head - how resentful he’d looked when you asked him how he does his job, _knowing_ that you were asking about it in relation to his family members’ deaths. He was a reasonable man, and you knew you hadn’t done anything wrong on the surface, but you shouldn't have pushed it, especially since the events you were referencing had been relayed to you by JJ in private. You weren’t even sure he wanted you to know about what happened to his wife and kid.

_Shit, I might have really fucked up._

You rolled over and yanked your phone off the charger, and before you had time to convince yourself it was a bad idea, you sent him a message.

**Me:** _Hey, sorry to bother you, I know it’s late. I just wanted to apologize if I offended you during our conversation earlier. You’re an incredible agent and boss and I didn’t mean to imply you shouldn’t be in the field for any reason._

You scrolled through Instagram mindlessly, waiting for his response, but he texted back almost immediately. Knowing him, he hadn’t even made an attempt to go to bed; he was probably still up reviewing the case.

 **Agent Hotchner:** _I understand. No need to apologize. I knew you’d hear about what happened sooner or later, and it’s natural to question my judgement, considering. I hope my actions in the field haven’t done anything to lend credence to that concern._

A weight lifted from your shoulders at his response, knowing he wasn’t angry with you.

 **Me:** _No, not at all, Sir. You and the team have been incredible and I’ve already learned so much. If I ask a question, please know it’s for my own learning rather than questioning your decisions!_

 **Agent Hotchner:** _I’m glad to hear that. Please always feel free to ask questions._

 **Me:** _Thank you so much! Will do!_

Satisfied with conversation, you set the phone back on the nightstand and rolled over. A few moments later, though, it buzzed again, and you looked at the screen.

 **Agent Hotchner:** _“Sir” is a little formal for text messages though, isn’t it?_

You blinked, struggling to process the tone of the message. Was _Aaron Hotchner_ making a joke? You messaged him back hesitantly.

 **Me:** _Can never be too formal! :) Is there something you’d prefer?_

**Agent Hotchner:** _Oh, I’m sure you can figure something out._

Your eyes widened at that, and you sat up in bed, staring at your screen. If you thought he was messing with you before, this was more; this was almost… flirting.

 _Ok, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,_ you thought, trying to calm your embarrassingly high heart rate. _He’s older. Way older. He probably doesn’t text that much, and he probably doesn’t realize how that came off._

 **Me:** _I’ll let you know when I do._

**Agent Hotchner:** _Please do. Sleep well._

You placed the phone back on the bedside table, almost shaking with adrenaline. What was _wrong_ with you lately? First you have a sex dream about your boss (who’s old enough to be your parent, you might add), and now you’re freaking out because he texted you something that could _possibly_ be, in _some_ interpretations, construed as flirting.

Hotch was attractive, of course. You’d have to be an idiot not to admit that. He was handsome in a way you didn’t see often - not the obvious, in-your-face stunning like Morgan was, or even the adorable, put-together look that Reid gave off. Hotch was old-school handsome, like he should be in a black and white movie smoking a cigarette while his doting wife made him dinner.

Or something. It’s not like you’d thought about this before.

But even if he was handsome to such a degree that seeing him with two buttons on his dress shirt undone nearly gave you a heart attack, leaning into this fantasy you were unconsciously creating where your relationship was anything more than boss and intern had the potential to destroy your career. Hotch could read people like a book, and if you were unable to conduct yourself normally and effectively at work for any reason, your internship and aspirations would be tossed out to the street.

Time to stop being an idiot.

Sometime during your mental dissection of the text conversation and its implications, you must have fallen asleep. You were awoken to a still-dark room and someone gently squeezing your shoulder, saying your name.

“Wha- oh, it’s you. I’m so sorry, did I miss something? What’s going on?” you asked, still not fully conscious.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Hotch replied, still standing over you. You were suddenly thankful for the dark room and the blanket that were covering your lack of pants. “I tried calling you and knocking, but you didn’t respond. I figured you’d forgotten to turn your ringer on.”

“Shit, yeah, I did. I’m so sorry,” you said, sitting up. “What did you need?”

“It’s Ellory Matthews. Police caught him trying to kidnap another girl. He’s in custody.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Texting can be so complicated, ya know? ;)
> 
> As always, tell me what you think! I sat down and planned the next few chapters out, so I think I have a pretty good idea of where it's going. The weekly update on Friday is working well so far, and I'll post updates on my [tumblr](https://thedumpsterqueen.tumblr.com/) if that ever changes! Have a great weekend, everyone!!!


	4. Misjudgments and Saviors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team interrogates Ellory Matthews and discovers that just because a killer is easy to catch, doesn't mean he's easy to predict.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's later than normal! I procrastinated the fuck out of the last half of this chapter and just got it finished.
> 
> Also, just a reminder - I don't use chapter-specific warnings to avoid spoilers, so please check the overall tags for anything you may want to avoid <3

You threw on your work clothes and clambered into the back of the SUV in the dark, silent hotel parking lot. Morgan and Hotch were sitting up front, Morgan looking as exhausted as you felt and clutching a steaming cup of coffee like it was his lifeline, Hotch looking as startlingly unfazed as ever. 

You caught a glance of the car’s clock up front between them and shook your head. Two in the morning - not an optimal time to interrogate anyone, much less try to force a confession out of a man desperate to avoid the consequences of a triple murder. If you were lucky, he’d fold quickly and the bulk of the paperwork could be pushed off until tomorrow when you’d all had more than a few hours of sleep. 

After a blessedly brief drive (Hotch had a habit of ignoring speed limits, even in non-emergencies) and arriving at the police precinct, the three of you stood in the windowed room looking into where Matthews was being held. A police officer - you forgot his name, but he was one of the same ones who briefed you when you’d first arrived - gave you the rundown of his arrest.

“He was back on campus,” the cop said. “We stopped checking everyone in who entered through the gates after 10, so he must have waited until after then. Campus police were on a patrol when they heard screaming. He tried to grab a girl walking home from the library and got his ass pepper sprayed.”

You suppressed a snort at that. For someone who’d gone to such over-the-top measures to subvert the authorities after murdering three women at once, he was continuing to prove your initial theory, unprofessional though it was - he was an idiot. 

Hotch thanked and dismissed the officer, who left after shooting one more glance of barely-suppressed disgust through the one-way window. Just the three of you now, you stepped forward, looking at your subject.

The first thing you noticed was his youth - he was  _young_ , around your age, which shocked you despite already  knowing that information. He was big, too; not overly fit, but he certainly looked strong enough to have had the upper hand on nearly any female victim he chose. His face, inflamed and dripping with tears from the effects of the pepper spray, was his defining feature in that it wasn’t particularly defining at all. The structure was mildly unattractive - too-big nose, downturned eyes - and the symmetry just off enough that the absence of a stellar personality to compensate would render him nearly invisible to the opposite sex. That, you supposed, combined with a predisposition towards instability and a repeated lack of success with women, had created the perfect storm of obsessiveness and delusion that produced the three (almost four)-time rapist and murderer that sat on the other side of the glass.

“We need a confession,” Hotch said, breaking you out of your internal analysis, “but we also need to know if he’s done this before. Garcia put together a list of missing women that fit the victimology here as well as in Arizona and Nevada. Considering he dumped bodies there, we can assume he has some degree of comfort with those areas.”

Morgan grabbed the aforementioned list from Hotch and shook his head. “There’s dozens of names on this list.”

Hotch nodded in acknowledgement. “I know. That’s why I’d like to get closure for as many of the families as possible. But first, let’s focus on the three we know about.” He turned to you. “Morgan and I will go in first. We may have some success with intimidation from male authority figures, but I don’t see us piquing enough interest to get a confession. Normally, I’d send Prentiss or JJ in a situation like this, but I have full faith you can handle it.”

He paused, inspecting your face, no doubt gauging your reaction. “How do you feel about interacting with him?”

You felt sick, to tell the truth, knowing you were an exact match for his preferences. More than that, you felt woefully unprepared to conduct your second-ever interrogation under the scrutiny of two of the BAU’s experienced agents, including your boss.  _ Especially  _ your boss, whose gravelly voice and piercing eyes seemed to be occupying much more of your mental real estate than you were comfortable with. 

You reassured him that you’d be fine, though, because looking like you were scared of interviewing a serial killer cast doubt on your ability to actually, you know,  _ do your job _ . And if you watched Morgan and Hotch enter the interrogation room while  _ really _ hoping that Hotch was underestimating their ability to crack him, well, no one needed to know.

Morgan swung the folding chair around, sitting with his arms propped on the backrest, directly across from Matthews. Matthews’ gaze, however, was glued to Hotch, who was standing with his arms crossed diagonally behind Morgan. You couldn’t see Hotch’s face, as his back was to you, but you knew what it looked like - jaw taut, lips pressed tight, frown even more pronounced than usual. Intimidating to anyone he came across, probably even more so if you were someone he was about to interrogate on suspicion of murder.

They made their introductions and began.

“Listen, Ellory, I’m gonna be straight with you here,” Morgan said, leaning forward. “This is not looking good for you, my man. We got you on attempted kidnapping at the same school three murdered girls attended. We have friends of these victims say they talked about a creepy teaching assistant in their classes. You’ve got piles of criminal psychology textbooks hidden in your house with notes that match what happened to these girls exactly. Put this in front of a jury, you’re getting convicted no question. At this point, it’s a matter of whether or not you wanna work with us and make this a little easier on you. You feel me?”

Matthews mumbled something indistinct, looking at his feet.

“Speak up,” Hotch commanded. You’d seen this before, what Morgan jokingly called the “good cop, bad drill sergeant” routine, but it always amazed you how easily they slipped into the roles.

Matthews looked up then, defiant. “They’re not mine.”

Morgan scoffed. “What aren’t? The books? C’mon man, they were under your mattress. In  _ your  _ house. No one’s buying that.”

“Well, it’s true,” Matthews mumbled, looking back down at his hands. “Don’t know how they got there.”

“And the girl?” Morgan asked, obviously unconvinced. “How you wanna explain you trying to kidnap a girl who fits the exact profile of three other girls who got kidnapped and killed in the same week?”

He whipped his head up at that, furious. “I wasn’t _ kidnapping _ her. She needed a ride. It was late.”

Hotch spoke up, his tone cutting. “Then why did she taze you?”

“She didn- look, she was confused, okay? I don’t know.”

“Sounds to me like she was pretty fuckin’ ungrateful,” Morgan offered. You cringed. You knew what he was playing at, but it was hard to hear nonetheless. 

He continued, “Pretty girl like her, it wasn’t safe walking around that late, right? And you try to be a gentleman, try to  _ help, _ and she freaks out and attacks you. That’d piss me off too, man.”

“Yeah. I guess,” Matthew responded, eyes flicking between Morgan and Hotch, seemingly unsure. 

“Don’t worry about him,” Morgan said. “He’s just here cuz he has to be. Listen. We’re on the same page here. I’m you, I’m nice to these girls, I offer them rides, I treat ‘em like a gentleman. They turn around and act  _ stuck-up, _ like they’re too good for me, right? That makes me mad.”

He paused, waiting for Matthews’ reaction. Matthews nodded, hesitant.

“So, what? Maybe I see them after they graduate or leave the college and confront them or something; tell them off for being such assholes to me when I was their TA. Maybe it gets heated, I gotta defend myself, someone gets hurt. Now, that’s not  _ my _ fault, right?”

Matthews nodded again, more enthusiastic this time.

“Is that what happened to those girls, Ellory?” Hotch asked.

The room fell silent, waiting on his response. You leaned forward, nose almost pressed against the glass,  _ praying _ it would really be this easy.

Matthews opened and closed his mouth, unsure. Morgan had worked him up, you could tell - his face was red, his hands balled up into fists on the table. He took a deep breath…

…and shook his head.

You cursed, stepping away from the glass. You heard Hotch and Morgan exit the interrogation room and come in behind you. You turned to face them. 

“I thought you had him for  _ sure _,” you groaned to Morgan.

“Me too,” he replied, “but we got close. She going in next?” he asked Hotch.

Hotch looked at you. “He’s close to cracking. Act like he’d be doing you a huge favor by confessing, like you’d be in his debt. He wants to feel powerful,  _ important. _ Convince him he can be.”

Catering to a man’s ego was a skill you’d fine-tuned after years of studying under, working with, and existing alongside them. Most men you’d had to flatter didn’t inspire quite so much disgust, however.

_ Just pretend he’s another idiot at a bar._

You straightened your cardigan and nodded. “I’m ready.”

“Remember,” Hotch said, “we’re right here. If you get too uncomfortable, just leave. This is a lot to ask of you so early in your position; I won’t blame you if it doesn’t go to plan.”

You nodded again and tried your best to smile. “Gotta learn sometime though, right?”

Morgan held out his fist to bump, and you obliged. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Hotch looked much less enthusiastic, but opened and held the door for you anyways. You took a deep breath and entered, plastering what you hoped was a convincing smile on your face. Matthews looked up, surprised, and returned your smile. He looked so  _ normal _ in that moment, it was hard for you to reconcile that this was the same man who stalked, raped, and murdered three women and led authorities on a purposeless goose chase to divert suspicion. 

Taking a seat directly across the table from him, you introduced yourself. “I’m the new intern at the BAU. I asked my boss if I could come talk to you. I just don’t feel like they really understood you, ya know?” You grinned, hoping the flattery would stick.

It appeared to, as Matthews leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice, as if he was confiding in you. “I know how guys like that are. They think they’re the shit. Women always fall for that, though.” He looked at you intensely, and you started to realize very quickly why his victims had found him unsettling. “You don’t fall for that, right? That alpha male stuff?”

You forced out a laugh. “No, I prefer more sensitive guys. Ones that you can have a conversation with.”

“Are we having a conversation?”

“Wh-what? I’m sorry?”

“Are we having a conversation?” he repeated, still holding intense eye contact.

“Well, yes, I would say so,” you replied. “On that note, um, I wanted to be honest with you. It would really mean a lot to me if the families of -” you paused, choosing your words carefully, “- the three girls we’ve been talking to you about could get closure.”

“How do you mean?” asked Matthews, leaning back and crossing his arms.

“I just mean, they don’t know what happened to them, you know? And if we could tell them that whatever happened to them, it was a  _ misunderstanding, _ and the person who did it feels bad, I think that would help a lot.”

Matthews’ beady, swollen eye twitched at that. “Feels  _ bad _?”

_ Oh, fuck. _

“Sorry, I don’t know if bad is the right word, just that they didn’t  _ want _ that to happen. For them to die.”

He paused. Seemed to make a decision. 

"Who said I didn't want them to die?"

You had misjudged him - in that moment, you knew that. You had assumed the fatal ends to the encounters with his victims were born out of shame. That he felt remorse. That he didn’t want to mutilate and discard their bodies, and that the purposeful distractions from his true psychological profile had been a desperate attempt of an unintelligent man to throw the police off his trail. He was a creep, he was a stalker, he was obsessive and dangerous, and he  _ was _ unintelligent. But he was also a sadist.

Realizing how pathetically unprepared you were to deal with this new diagnosis, you pushed back from the table and moved to stand - slowly, like you were trying to avoid startling a wild animal.  _ Trying. _ But it all happened so fast.

Matthews shot up from his seat the instant you did - uncuffed, because he wasn’t supposed to be a threat, not like this - and grabbed you by the neck, dragging you across the table, scraping your legs against the hard metal edges. You screamed for help (really just screamed Hotch’s name over and over) until he had you too tight and you couldn’t anymore. Your hair was in your face, obscuring your vision, but you heard the door crash open seconds after he moved. He wrenched you closer to him, trapping you in the crook of one elbow, cutting off your breathing. _More_ than cutting off your breathing, he was  _ squeezing, _ much harder than he needed to simply choke you, and amidst the haze of your hair in your face and the blood rushing in your ears and the muffled sounds of Hotch and Morgan yelling, you had the wild thought that he might actually detach your head from your shoulders.

_ They can’t shoot, _ you thought, your last clear notion before your mind started to go fuzzy. He had you too close; the space was too small. A loud crash, presumably the table being launched against a wall, cut through the pounding in your head. You felt a sharp jerk - Matthews trying to move away - a sickening, dull _ crack, _ and the vice holding your throat was released. You dropped forward onto your hands and knees, hacking desperately, tears streaming onto the ground.

Morgan grabbed you by the shoulders and sat you up. “You ok? Hey, look at me, you ok? Can you breathe? Breathe for me, ok, come on.”

Coughing out a raspy, “Yes,” you pushed your hair out of your eyes and wiped your sleeve through the snot and mascara streaking your face. You looked to your left, trying to see what happened to Matthews, and nearly stopped breathing again.

He was dead, collapsed into a pile on the floor like sodden laundry. There was no blood, no apparent evidence of what happened, until you looked to his head and saw how grossly contorted his neck was. You looked up at Hotch in shock, who was standing over the body, hair askew, breathing heavily.

_ He broke his fucking neck. _

Morgan could’ve done it, of course, but by the way Hotch looked up and met your eyes, you knew that wasn’t the case. 

They gathered you up and wrapped you in a jacket. You saw paramedics almost immediately who cleared you medically (“No permanent tracheal damage, just expect bruising and soreness.”), met with internal investigators who questioned you about the incident, spoke to the rest of the team on a video call, spent 20 minutes on the phone with Garcia trying to reassure her between coughing fits that you were all alright, and finally, you were cleared to leave. The whole time, though, you were paying less and less attention to what was going on around you and more time thinking about the way Hotch looked when you looked him in the face.

You knew he had to have killed before; working this job for as long as he did made that a certainty. What you didn’t expect to see on his face was a complete lack of remorse.  _ Disgust, _ even. He looked down at Matthews like he was scum, his lip curled and his jaw set. It was only when you made eye contact that you saw the slightest bit of emotion, of panic, before they whisked you away.

Morgan interrupted your cyclical musing. “You need someone to stay with you?”

Right, he was dropping you off at your hotel room.

“No, thank you Morgan,” you whispered, throat feeling more raw by the minute. “I’ll be okay.”

Morgan looked unconvinced but refrained from debating you. “Alright, but you know to call if you need anything, right?”

You nodded and managed a small smile. “Thank you.”

____________

Later that day, you took a commercial flight back, alone. Morgan and Hotch were staying for a few more days to finish closing the case, but they insisted you go home and rest. You were too drained to argue. 

When you closed your eyes to sleep that night, in your own apartment, you expected to see Matthews, jeering at you from across the table. You expected to feel his arms wrap around your throat, to smell his stench, to wake up in a cold sweat thinking he was standing over you, ready to attack you again.

None of those things happened. In fact, when you closed your eyes, Matthews wasn’t the man you saw at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally going to include way more than just the interrogation, but the word count got away from me. Not a ton of Hotch in this chapter, but fear not, you will be fed next week ;) Also dark!Hotch hits different, you cannot change my mind. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, thank you to everyone who takes the time to [follow](https://thedumpsterqueen.tumblr.com/) me, share my story, and send me such kind messages. It means the world! <3


	5. Thai Food and Realizations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You decide to talk to Hotch after the Matthews incident, and wind up discovering a lot more about both of you than you bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this one out QUICK because I'm moving this week and packing is taking up 94% of my brainpower but!! It's out on time!! Just a reminder, if I ever have to delay a chapter, you can check my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thedumpsterqueen) for updates on my posting schedule. I love you all so much, thank you for the continued support and comments!!! <3

You weren’t prepared with the immense boredom that came with actually having free time.

The rest of the team had closed the case and flown back (at least you assumed they had; you hadn’t checked), and Hotch had texted you not to bother coming back in until they got a new assignment. You were grateful for the courtesy - a little time to decompress after almost being murdered was nice - but after months of having almost no life outside of the internship, you weren’t entirely sure what to  _ do _ with yourself.

By the time day four rolled around, you had caught up on the reading you’d been meaning to get to, deep cleaned twice, tried and failed to get into running, and sought out at least a dozen other forms of mindless entertainment. You tried not to think about the fact that this would be the perfect time to catch up with friends if you actually  _ had _ any, but your college and post-college life spent studying like a madwoman to land a position with the BAU hadn’t exactly lent itself to a healthy social life. There were acquaintances, of course, people you’d spent time with, college boys you’d dated briefly, but none of them had ever lasted. Gotten close.

None of them had ever  _ killed a man _ for you.

That was the core of it, right? The reason you couldn’t get him out of your head? He’d only known you for a few months, not like the rest of his team that he’d dedicated years of his life to, and yet he didn’t hesitate to end someone’s life in brutal fashion to save yours. You were grateful, of course, given the alternative, but a part of you felt  _ bad. _ __Given his history, he was already encumbered with enough trauma - the last thing he’d needed was another death on his conscience.

_ That was his decision to make. _

That’s what you told yourself, at least. Or tried to. But after four days of the guilt eating at you and failing to distract yourself from it, that thought stopped being reassuring. That evening, after a couple glasses of wine, you finally worked up the courage to acknowledge the idea that had been tossing around in the periphery of your mind for a while.

Committing to action before you convinced yourself this was a dumb idea - and it was, of course, but the slight buzz and four days of isolation said otherwise - you called in an order to the Thai place down the street and heaved yourself off the couch. You tried not to care about how you looked, but changed your outfit an embarrassing number of times before you got the text that your order was ready. 

When you first started at the BAU, Garcia had sent you a directory of all the team members’ information. You remembered asking her why their home addresses were on the list -  _ that’s kind of unnecessary, isn’t that, like, personal? _ you’d said - and you remembered the sad look she’d given you by way of an answer. Turns out the job had followed them all home at one point or another, usually in a way that required rescuing. As you checked the directory for Hotch’s address, you considered that this information was probably only intended to be used if you needed to save him from an unhinged serial killer breaking into his home, but you figured “thanking your boss for snapping a man’s neck to save your life” was a satisfactory enough purpose. 

Turns out, Hotch lived in an apartment only a few blocks away from yours. After picking up the takeout order, you started to make the trek. The closer you got, however, the more your confidence started to waver, and not just because you started to realize how weird you were about to look. Even in the dimming light of the evening, you could tell from the building facades that you were entering a much more well-to-do part of downtown. The storefronts and restaurants occupying the bottom floor of brick condos looked more high-class, the cars parked along the sidewalk more expensive and well-maintained. It made sense given his status in the FBI that Hotch could afford to live in an area like this, but still, you hadn’t imagined it. You hadn’t imagined him living outside of work at all, actually - like an elementary school teacher, it was strange to think that he had a life outside of his job.

You stopped outside of the address on your cell phone, a greystone, ivy-covered apartment building. The doorman saw you pause at the threshold and opened the door from the inside. 

“Visiting, I assume?” he asked, as you stepped inside.

Still in shock at the fact that you were in the sort of area that had  _ doormen, _ __you nodded. “Um, yes, Agent Hotchner? I mean, Aaron Hotchner? I work with him. For him, actually. He doesn’t know I’m coming.”

The doorman gracefully ignored your verbal fumbling. “Do you have a badge?”

It made sense that Hotch would use that as a barrier to entry. Smart. You nodded again and produced it from your bag. He waved you on to the stairwell, where you made the climb to the fourth and topmost floor.

You stuttered to a stop outside his door at the very end of the hall. Suddenly overcome with nerves, you took a mental stock of yourself: slightly winded from the four-floor climb, dressed in an oversized sweater and leggings, hair less-than-artfully windswept, hands slightly shaking with adrenaline, clutching a bag of takeout.  _ Not _ the image you wanted to present to your boss.

_ God, this was such a fucking stupid idea.  _

You started to turn away, intending to leave the way you came, when the door in front of you flew open. You yelped, dropping the bag, and turned back to see Hotch standing in the doorway. He was in his work pants, still, but a plain black t-shirt replaced his usual button-up. His left hand was on the half-open door, right hand behind his back, no doubt holding his gun. You put your hands up sheepishly in surrender.

“Hey, Agent Hotchner. Sorry. I just wanted to-”

“What are you doing here?” he interrupted, eyebrows screwed up in confusion.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to, um, thank you. For saving me, the other day. I brought you dinner.”

He continued to look at you like you’d just grown two heads.

You leaned down and picked up the bag of food, holding it out towards him lamely. He looked down at it and finally seemed to relax, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry. I don’t get many- I wasn’t expecting a visitor. Please, come in.”

It hadn’t occurred to you that he might invite you in, but you weren’t about to pass up the opportunity to see _Aaron Hotchner’s_ apartment. You stepped in, and he replaced the gun he was holding back in a drawer by the entryway, locking the door behind you. You were suddenly overcome with sorrow, knowing his life had progressed in such a way that hearing footsteps outside his door was a cause for alarm. 

The apartment was nearly as intimidating as the man himself. Tall, industrial ceilings loomed over the open, warehouse-style floorplan, populated by neutral furnishings. An exposed brick wall on the left housed a stainless-steel kitchen, while a king-sized bed on the far right wall was placed near the only closed portion of the space, which you guessed was the bathroom. The windows were numerous - multi-paned and massive, but curtains were drawn over most of them. It was all a reflection of Hotch - impressive and somewhat cold. 

There was a single photo, from what you could see, in the entire apartment - a small frame on the otherwise file-covered coffee table between the couch and flatscreen. It was a photo of Hotch, a woman, and a young child. You found yourself drawn towards it, as Hotch took the bag from you to set it on the kitchen island, and you walked over to pick it up. He was smiling in the photo - a genuine smile, not the tight-lipped imitations you caught a few times at the office - and the sight filled you with emotion. Who was he before you met him? A father, a husband, of course, but what was he  _ like? _ __Did he laugh at Prentiss and Morgan’s off-color jokes instead of chiding them, did he go out to social gatherings with the team? Did he spare emotion when speaking to a victim’s family, as he so rarely did now? Would he have broken a man’s neck without thought like he did to Matthews?

“You’ll stay for dinner?” 

You quickly set the frame back down.

“Oh, no, I wasn’t planning on it. Like I said, I just wanted to thank you. I’ve been thinking about it the last few days and I just feel… bad. I guess. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Why would you feel bad?”

You hesitated, trying to avoid the truth - that he didn’t need another body on his conscience. He waited for an answer, and when he didn't receive one, he stepped closer and scanned your face. "What aren't you telling me?"

You weren't keeping anything from him, not really, you just didn't want it to sound like you were calling his mental state into question like you did at the hotel. It didn't matter though, because he had apparently pulled the answer from your expression already.

“You think I’m damaged. And that killing Matthews somehow added to that.”

There was no point in even attempting to lie to him, so you stayed silent.

Hotch sighed and pulled out a seat at the kitchen island. You took it and watched him distribute the takeout containers between the two of you, noticing that despite insisting you weren’t intending to stay for dinner, you’d ordered plenty of food for two people. 

_ Profiling yourself is the worst. _

“When Haley and I were married,” Hotch began, picking at his curry, “I took her for granted. I spent more late nights at work than I can count, and I always assumed she would be there when I got home. She was, at first, and then she wasn’t.”

You nodded, afraid to speak, trying not to disturb the moment you’d somehow stumbled upon.

“She had an affair. I never confronted her about it, but I knew. I didn’t hate her for it, but when she asked for a divorce, I let her go without a fight. I wanted the best chance to keep Jack in my life and I didn’t want things to get ugly between us. It worked - I got to see Jack; we were amicable.”

He paused before continuing, “They were killed a few years later by George Foyet. We mismanaged that case. He was ahead of us the entire time; we couldn’t catch up. When we finally caught him, after Haley and Jack-” His voice finally broke, and he set down his fork, staring at the counter. 

“He surrendered. I didn't care.”

“You beat him to death,” you whispered. You’d looked up the case file, after JJ had told you what happened. 

He nodded, seemingly unsurprised you were familiar with the details. “I was never charged, hardly investigated. No one blamed me. I took some time off, and I came back. I thought about going back to law, but I didn’t.”

He looked up at you, meeting your gaze. “Why didn’t I?”

You blinked away the tears that were forming, confused.”I-I’m sorry?”

“Why didn’t I go back to law? Leave the BAU? You should know the answer.”

“Are you asking me to profile you?”

He nodded in confirmation. “You’re not going to offend me, don’t worry.”

Hotch was the last person you wanted to profile, especially to his face, but you knew better than to try to refuse. 

“You... wanted a sense of purpose. If you could keep the same thing from happening to other people, it would make up for what happened to your family,” you responded quietly. It was an easy answer, but it still felt wrong to put Hotch on display like that, especially after he’d already revealed more to you than you’d ever seen him do with anyone. 

“Correct,” he said, without a hint of the bitterness you’d have expected to accompany that statement.

“And did it? Help, I mean?”

He studied your face, as if trying to decide whether to grant you the answer. You were suddenly aware of the strangeness of the situation - sitting feet away from your boss in his own apartment talking about the darkest moments of his life. This was insight you doubted he’d ever given before, and as you glanced over his mussed hair, the black t-shirt, caught a whiff of his cologne, you tried not to think about the implications of that statement.

Clearing his throat and raising his eyebrows, he turned back to his food. “It did. It does, most of the time. The rest of the team has been exceptionally understanding, perhaps more so than I deserve.”

“You deserve everything they can give you,” you said with a small smile. “From what they’ve told me, you’ve done the same for each of them several times over.”

“It’s my job,” Hotch said, but you could tell he softened at hearing how his team regarded him.

You both went back to your food, finishing the meal in relative silence - the kind that was comfortable, where you both knew that everything that needed to be said for now, had been. At least, the silence probably felt comfortable to him.  _ Your _ mind was in overdrive. 

Everything Hotch had said and done the last few months that had caused you to falter - the way he shook your hand when you first signed onto the BAU internship, the innocuous moments of praise, that goddamn _ tie _ \- they were circling your mind like a vulture waiting for the kill. You had tried to brush those moments off, but hearing him open up like this, bare his soul, was too much. It was the next look you stole, watching him eat in quiet contemplation, faint remnants of the blush from the compliment you paid him still gracing his cheeks, that did you in. 

You were pretty sure you were in love with Aaron Hotchner. 

You were so,  _ so _ unbelievably fucked.

____________

When Hotch bid you goodbye that night, after you helped clean up his kitchen (which allowing you to do had been a debate in itself), you had the brief, stupid thought that you should just be honest with him. How long, truly, were you going to be able to hide the fact that you were infatuated with your boss? Especially when your boss was in the business of reading people like books? 

That idea went out the window, however, when he leaned against the doorway with his signature half-smile and said, “Thank you for everything tonight. I’m glad you’re on the team,” because you know where you  _ wouldn't _ be, if you confessed your sudden realization? On the team. Hotch made it clear when he hired you, and every day since, that clear judgement was paramount to the team's success. There was no way he'd trust you to be unbiased in a situation that required it if he knew how you felt. And this position was too much to think about giving up, not after the years of studying and social isolation that allowed you to make the cut. 

_ So, you can do this,  _ you decided.  _ You can lie to Aaron Hotchner. _

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the last part literally made me emotional I am SOFT for Aaron Hotchner okay???????


	6. Buckshot and Tequila

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events during a new case test your ability to keep your feelings hidden, and a night out takes an unforeseen turn.

Turns out, lying to Hotch was easier than you thought.

It helped that you were lying to yourself too, of course - that you pretended your gaze didn't linger on his form whenever he was in your vicinity, that the swell of pride in your chest when he agreed with something you said was purely professional. There were times, though, that the facade was much harder to maintain. The most recent case had been one of those times.

You had been tracking down an unsub abducting children in a rural Iowa town. Three kids had gone missing in the span of two weeks, and after Garcia matched the victimology and MO with neighboring states, it looked to be close to a _dozen_ in the years before that. The case started off rough enough - locals refused to believe it could be one of their own, police resisted the BAU’s guidance, the usual - but it came to a head when a fourth child went missing during the investigation. 

Thankfully, the team figured out the identity of the unsub relatively quickly. Reid did a geographical profile of all the locations where victims were taken and found a public health clinic that had branches in each area. Garcia cross-checked the employee records to find that only one doctor had done travel shifts at each clinic during the time the children were taken, and within minutes, you were rushing to his address. 

The SUV carrying Hotch, Rossi, and Prentiss arrived long enough before yours that by the time you pulled up, they were already kicking down the door and entering the home. The first thing you heard after you flung the car door open was the deafening crack of a weapon firing, and despite your lack of training with firearms, it was apparent that it was _not_ an FBI-issue pistol.

You would never describe yourself as fragile - you _couldn't_ be, not in this line of work. But when you registered the implications of that sound, your knees buckled, instantly bringing you down onto the dusty ground outside the farmhouse. The rest of the team sprinted in, guns drawn. You faintly registered Prentiss yelling inside, then more gunshots, but your head was ringing so loudly from the visceral _panic_ that you couldn’t make out anything specific. 

When Hotch burst back out onto the porch, you thought you might honestly sob with relief. That is, until you caught the glint of the sun in the slick, dark blood dripping down the sleeve of his suit. 

That was when you puked. 

Something about the sight of Aaron Hotchner bleeding felt so _wrong_ that even as you struggled to your feet and stepped over the pile of sick you left in the dirt, even as you got closer and saw the rivulets of blood drip down to his fingertips and dot the wooden floors of the porch, you felt like you were in a dream. Your mind couldn’t grasp the sudden shock of his mortality, that he could bleed, that he could _die_ , even, and he very well might, depending on what vessels were hit. You made it up the steps, only managing to call out his name - his first name - your throat still burning from bile. Despite the chaos of the current moment, he still whipped his head around at the sound of that, as if hearing the name _Aaron_ desperately falling from your lips was more attention-grabbing than the rest of the team gathering around him trying to stem the bleeding.

“It looks worse than it is,” said Rossi, peering through the holes in Hotch’s mangled sleeve. “It was just buckshot, and he barely hit you. Nothing a few stitches won’t fix.”

He turned out to be right, thank god, and later that afternoon, Hotch was freshly bandaged and sitting across from you on the return flight to Quantico.

So, yeah, the “lying to yourself” thing wasn’t going so well at that moment. Hotch was absorbed in paperwork while the rest of the team napped - because _of course_ he was; even being shot didn’t sway his apparently relentless refusal to relax - and each time he winced at the movement of his arm, your vice grip around your chest tightened a little more. 

He must have sensed you staring, because he looked up, frown softening slightly as he saw the concern on your face.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine,” he assured you with a half smile.

Teetering on an emotional precipice, too scared to respond for fear of falling over the edge, you went back to your reading. After a few minutes of listening to him write while not turning a single page in your book, he set his pen down and took a breath.

“You were screaming my name,” he said, quietly, despite you two being the only ones awake.

“What?” 

“Earlier,” he clarified, “when we went into the house. I could hear you outside, yelling my name.”

You looked at him, incredulous. “Of course I did. I heard the shotgun go off. Clearly,” you gestured at his arm, “I had a reason to be worried.”

He shook his head and cleared his throat, as if you didn’t understand the question. “Dave and Emily were with me. Any of us could have gotten hit. You only yelled for me.”

_Oh._

You shrugged. “You’re the team leader. It’s my instinct to call for you when something goes wrong."

It was a lie, and a bad one at that, but Hotch gave you an unreadable look and let the subject drop. 

The rest of the flight was uneventful, and when you finally made it back to your apartment, you had no plans other than to sleep off the stress of the case and the embarrassment of Hotch calling your actions into question. Garcia, however, wasn't about to let that happen.

**BAU-tiful People Group Chat**

**Garcia:** _*added You to the conversation*_

 **Garcia:** _Ok, my lovely children, I know you’re all tired, but I miss your faces, so I’ll see u at Whimsy tonight at 9! Notice I didn’t use a question mark bc it is NOT a question!_

You knew from overhearing the team talk that Whimsy was a bar downtown they liked to frequent, but you’d never been invited before. Despite your overwhelming exhaustion, the idea of going out with the team, of finally feeling _accepted_ by them, was enough to make you amenable to the concept. It may have seemed insignificant on the surface, but Garcia adding you to their group chat was the biggest welcome gesture you’d received yet.

 **Morgan:** _Only if you wear that dress you know I like ;)_

You _lived_ for the day they would realize they were actually flirting with each other instead of just pretending to. 

**Prentiss:** _Garcia… you’re killing me… but you know I’ll be there._

 **JJ:** _Contacting the babysitter as we speak._

 **Morgan:** _Fuck yeah!!! Pretty Boy, you in?_

 **Reid:** _Can’t we ever go somewhere quiet?_

As the group chimed in with various iterations of, “Shut up, Reid,” you hesitantly typed out a text to confirm your attendance. You were excited, of course, but nervous to be the new kid at their favorite hangout. After today's events, though, the desire not to be sober won out over nerves.

 **You:** _I’ll be there! Thanks for the invite!_

 **Rossi:** _Hope you kids are ready for me to drink you under the table, as usual._

 **Morgan:** _Eyyy, you KNOW we party hard! See y’all tonight._

____________

Turns out, Morgan was not exaggerating. Not even a little bit. By the time you arrived, 15 minutes late, everyone looked to be _at least_ 3 shots deep. Garcia ran over to greet you, squealing, and wrapped you in a suffocating hug.

“I’m so glad you came! What do you drink? Tequila? I’ll grab the next round!”

You laughed and confirmed that tequila sounded great, and as she scurried off to the bar with Morgan on her heels, you had a chance to look around.

The atmosphere of the club surprised you - it was all glass and steel and modernity, packed with people dancing to something with intense bass - not the low-key joint you’d pictured the team wanting to unwind at. But as you watched JJ, Prentiss, and Rossi cheer on Reid as he threw back a shot, doubling over in hysterics as he coughed and sputtered at the taste, you realized that this place was just loud and energetic enough to keep them from thinking about anything _other_ than work. In that way, you definitely saw the appeal.

“I come bearing shots!” Garcia yelled as her and Morgan made it back to the table. “Grab yours… here we go- whoops! Alright, everyone got theirs?”

She turned to you, grinning behind a pair of hot pink spectacles. “Cheers not ONLY to rescuing four kidnapped children alive, but also to our lovely intern and her first Whimsy outing!”

The team erupted in cheers and you smiled back, downing the tequila. You chatted with the group while Garcia ordered more drinks, and then _more_ drinks, and soon you felt a pleasant buzz filling your head. 

“Morgan, you better ask me to dance right now before I go find another man to do the job,” Garcia said with a wink in his direction. 

Morgan grinned and mock-bowed, holding out a hand for her to take, and led her off to the dancefloor.

“Should we join them?” JJ asked around the table.

“Someone’s gotta make sure they don’t do anything worth getting kicked out for,” Prentiss shot back. You giggled and followed the girls, leaving Rossi and Reid behind at the table in the midst of a heated debate about childhood brain development that you couldn’t even hope to comprehend. 

Not long after you started dancing, you felt a gentle tap on your shoulder and turned around, looking up into the _stunning_ green eyes of a man who looked to be about your age. It was hard to really tell what he looked like in the dim lighting, but by the way Prentiss was giving you a thumbs up and mouthing, “Go for it,” from your side, he was good enough for you.

“Do you want to dance?” he asked above the music. You smiled and nodded in confirmation, letting him wrap his arms around your waist and pull you to his hips.

He knew how to move, that was for certain. He ground against your backside lightly, snaking his hands around your stomach. You weren’t used to this kind of thing - dancing with random men at bars, letting them touch you like this - but the combination of the music and the booze and the relief at the last case being over was making you feel more free than you had in recent memory. 

You exchanged grins with Morgan, who was dancing a few feet away in a _much_ more R-rated manner with Garcia. The man behind you (whose name you didn’t know, but who cared?) leaned down to kiss your neck and you arched against him in response, reaching up to run your hand through his hair. 

Throughout the song, you had rotated back to facing the table where the rest of your team was sitting. You glanced over, saw Reid and Rossi still deep in discussion, along with another man in a black button-up with a very familiar side profile and-

Hotch.

Hotch was _here_ , and as if the powers that be were insistent upon proving to you that the opposite of serendipity existed, at the exact moment you had that realization, he turned and made direct eye contact with you. Drunk, wearing a skintight dress, a random man grinding on your ass, and staring right back at your Unit Chief at the motherfucking Federal Bureau of Investigation. 

Your heart dropped to your stomach, and if you had been drunker, you might have hurled tequila all over the dancefloor. Instead, you pulled away from the mystery man behind you, ignoring his shocked, “Wait!” and beelined to the bar.

“Tequila. Shot. Please, I’m sorry, just saw someone I didn’t expect to,” you blurted out to the bartender, swearing you could feel Hotch’s eyes on your back from across the club. 

The bartender, probably having seen much worse, nodded in understanding and poured your drink. You gulped it down, wiped your mouth, and leaned on the bar to get your bearings. 

_It’s not weird. It’s not. It’s a bar, it’s outside of work hours, it’s perfectly fine that you’re buzzed and dancing and having fun. Everyone else is!_

Really, it wasn’t that you were worried about your job, or even that he would judge you (he probably would, but that was unavoidable _regardless_ of the setting), it was just that you hadn’t mentally prepared yourself for the possibility that he would come. He was in the group chat - obviously, if he had seen Garcia’s invite - but had never struck you as the social type, the kind of boss that would interact with his team outside of work.

“Did you see that _Hotch_ is here?” Prentiss asked breathlessly, appearing at the bar beside you.

Apparently, you weren’t the only one surprised. 

“I did,” you whispered back, despite the thumping music and the rowdy patrons making it logically impossible for your words to reach the table 20 feet away. “Does he usually join you guys?”

“Never,” Prentiss said, before thinking and correcting herself, “Not in years, anyways. When Haley… we used to drag him out, but we stopped after a while.”

“Why do you think he came tonight?"

She shrugged. “Who knows? Far be it from me to explain why Hotch does anything.” An idea seemed to pop in her head, and she grinned. “Maybe it’s because of you!”

“M-me?” Your reaction to the suggestion wasn’t nearly as nonchalant as you’d tried for, but Prentiss was too drunk to notice. 

“Yeah, gotta help initiate the intern on her first night out, right?” She grinned and clapped you on the shoulder, then turned away to head back to the dancefloor, leaving you alone. You sighed, gathered yourself as much as you could considering the effects of the tequila, and turned around to go greet him.

“Hey, Agent Hotchner. Didn’t expect to see you tonight!” 

“Yes, well. Thought I’d show up for a bit; it’s been a while.” He gave you a tight lipped smile then looked back down at his glass of whisky, the awkward energy palpable.

_Probably because he just saw you basically dry-humping some random dude._

“Well, I’m glad you came! Feel free to, uh, come dance if you want! Morgan and Garcia are showing us all up,” you said, gesturing to where Morgan and Garcia _were_ in fact drawing the attention of several onlookers. 

He chuckled at that. “They’re certainly a sight to behold, aren’t they?”

You nodded in agreement and headed back to the bar, the brief conversation pointing you towards yet another drink. Talking to him was so _easy_ , sometimes, and others it was like pulling teeth to get a human response out of him. Could you blame him, though? Your last one-on-one interaction was you basically inviting yourself over to his apartment with takeout and listening to him spill his guts about his dead wife and kid, and he probably felt uncomfortable with you after that, and then you went right to this case without any chance for things to go back to normal, and then he got shot, and _oh my god, you didn’t even ask him how his arm was doing, how fucking rude can you be, dumbass?_ and-

“Whoops! Shit, I’m sorry!”

You looked at the person you’d just bumped into in the midst of your internal crisis. 

“Hey, it’s you!”

The man you’d been dancing with earlier, now much more obviously handsome in the brighter lights of the bar area, grinned in recognition.

“Hey, I thought I’d scared you off there!”

You laughed and shook your head. “No, I’m sorry. Just saw my boss and freaked out a little bit.”

“Oh shit, your boss is here?” he asked. “That’s uncomfortable, damn. I’m sorry.”

“No worries, it’s just… yeah. Anyways. Wanna pick up where we left off?” you asked, more desperate than ever to get Hotch out of your head. If he didn’t want to see you having a wild night, he shouldn’t have come to the club.

He took your hand, looking pleased. “Lead the way.”

_It really was so much easier,_ you thought, _to let yourself feel attraction for guys like this._ Uncomplicated, willing to take what you give them, no backstory to speak of. They weren’t riddled with tragic history, unattainable in both position and personality, not to mention impossible to even _imagine_ ever returning your feelings. Guys like Cooper (you’d finally learned his name somewhere amid the grinding and groping) were easy and _fun_ and they didn’t keep you up at night agonizing over whether that thing you said at work was impressive enough.

But then again, they didn’t give you the roller-coaster feeling in your stomach that Aaron Hotchner did every time you locked eyes. 

And lock eyes you did - an increasingly frequent number of times, actually. It seemed like whenever you turned to face his direction, he was staring you down. He always went back to his conversation with Rossi and Reid, but you noticed that he seemed to get more and more pissed off with every song that played. His frown was deepened, his expression dark, and you could tell even from a distance that his knuckles were white from gripping his glass. 

You shrugged it off as Hotch being Hotch - who knew what that man was thinking? And besides, you were trying to _forget_ him, damn it. At least, that was until a particularly raunchy song came on and you were in the middle of getting your ass felt up, when you felt a hand squeeze your shoulder and whip you around, bringing you face-to-face with your boss himself.

“Hey, what’s going on? Is something wrong?” you asked, utterly bewildered as to why he was interrupting you.

He ignored you, instead staring down Cooper, who very quickly decided Hotch wasn’t one to fuck with and walked away.

“Hotch! Is there a case? Should I grab the others?”

He shook his head. “Can you come with me, please?”

Perplexed, you acquiesced (not that you had much of a choice, with the way he was gripping your elbow) and followed him through the crowd, out the back door, and into an alley. He let go of you then, sighing and crossing his arms.

Your mind was wild with questions - did you do something you shouldn’t have? Get too drunk? Everyone was drunk, though, and you weren’t even _half_ as wasted as some of the others. Did Reid or Rossi tell him something bad about you? Were you about to somehow get yourself fired off the clock?

“The boy you were dancing with was bad news,” he said, after an uncomfortably long period of silence.

_What the fuck?_

“What the _fuck_?” you repeated, this time out loud, and you _knew_ you shouldn’t be talking to him like this, but you were too caught off guard to conduct yourself more appropriately. 

“He was a drug user,” Hotch said, as if that would explain everything.

“A drug user,” you repeated back, no less confused.

“Cocaine,” he continued. “He was high - his pupils were dilated, he was rubbing his nose, and he's been to the bathroom several times.”

“So… you’re going to arrest him? For doing cocaine?” you asked, still baffled as to what he was insinuating.

“What? No,” he said, “I’m trying to warn you not to get involved.”

You had entered some parallel universe, you decided. There was no other explanation for your boss, a man you’d known all of four months, dragging you outside a bar on a Friday night and telling you not to dance with a hot stranger because he was on cocaine.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself before you really did get yourself fired. “Sir, I appreciate the concern, but I don’t think it’s really any of your business.”

His face hardened at that. “It is _exactly_ my business,” he said, eyes boring a hole through your skull, “to watch out for things that may compromise my team.”

“Compromise your team?” you repeated his words again. “I was _dancing,_ not getting engaged to the guy.”

“Should I allow you to dance with a sexual sadist if it’s _just dancing_?” he pressed, using the stern voice that usually caused any sort of dissent to whither and die right in your throat.

It didn’t work this time, probably because he was acting fucking insane. “Are you seriously comparing a sexual sadist to a guy who does cocaine while he’s out partying?”

“It’s not just while he’s _out partying,_ by the way he conducted himself, he was a chronic-”

“It doesn’t matter!” you said, nearly yelling now. “You had no right! I'm sorry, what are you, my dad?!”

His eyes flashed at that. “If I hadn’t already had to sit through an 8 hour surgery not knowing if Garcia was going to make it out alive because her date _shot_ her, then perhaps I would have no right. But as it stands, I do. Please be more careful with who you associate with, even if it’s _just dancing_.” 

He spat that last part out, more vitriolic than you’d ever seen him, and stalked back inside. You were left outside in the alley, alone, reeling from confusion surrounding the entire interaction and shock at the emotional charge he’d leveled at you.

Reentering the bar, you saw that Hotch’s seat had been vacated and his jacket was gone. You rolled your eyes, and on your way to the bathroom, nearly ran into Cooper again.

“Hey!” he said. “What was that all about? You good?”

You looked up at his face and for the first time, noticed faint traces of white dust around his nose. He looked keyed up, jumpy - his pulse racing and visible on his carotid. You sighed.

“I’m good. Just not in the mood right now, sorry,” and pushed past him into the bathroom.

Hotch was an emotionally stunted asshole with a control complex, but he was also never fucking wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So weird and unexpected that when I actually give myself time to write, I end up writing longer chapters??? Amazing???
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear what you think! Your comments and messages never fail to make my day! Truly, thank you for everything you say, even if it's just incoherent screeching, because that's relatable as hell tbh.
> 
> Also... do we sense some jealousy on Hotch's part? Perhaps? ;)


	7. Hangovers and Confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You try to determine whether it's the hangover or Hotch causing more of your headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been crazy busy this week, so this one is a bit short, I’m sorry! Thank you for your kind, complimentary, and horny thoughts in my messages this week. They truly keep me going. Big shout out, also, to the few people that have messaged me angry about how long it’s taking Hotch and reader to get together - you had ample warning I was gonna drag this out ;) Final bit of business: there will be no chapter next Friday. I’m going to take the next two weeks to get ahead on writing so I’m not panicking when the content starts to get longer and more ~intense~. I’m sorry for that :( Thank you so much for your continued support, truly. You’re all amazing.

Your phone’s ringtone blared into your ear, waking you up from a dreamless sleep. Opening it to check the notification, you groaned at the bright light emitting from the screen. Upon seeing it was a text from Hotch, all traces of unconsciousness dissipated, and you sat up in bed, head pounding.

Ok, so you were really fucking hungover.

After Hotch freaked out on you last night and you ditched Cooper, you’d made it your mission to have fun with the rest of the team, which involved you buying everyone _many_ more drinks. It worked - you didn’t leave until 2 am - but you were about to pay the price, because Hotch apparently wanted everyone at the office in 30 minutes. You checked the time.

7:00 am.

If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought he was doing this on purpose.

You showered and threw on a dress, praying the commute to the BAU would give the 3 ibuprofen currently digesting in your otherwise empty stomach time to work.

It didn’t - in fact, it just provided ample time for the nausea to set in. But by the haggard looks everyone else was shooting as they settled into the meeting room, they seemed to be in the same boat. 

Garcia, wearing massive sunglasses and laying on the couch in the corner, spoke first. “I threw up in the shower this morning.”

Morgan raised his head out of his crossed arms on the table, probably about to make some quip about Garcia and showers, but seemed to think better of being upright and laid his head back down with a grunt. 

“I feel great,” Reid said with a smile, prompting groans out of everyone, including yourself.

“That’s because you had like, 3 drinks.” JJ said. “And 2 of them were beer.”

“It’s also because I drank an appropriate amount of water. Did you know if you consume 8 ounces of water with each alcoholic drink, you can reduce the incidence of hangovers by-”

“Kid,” Rossi interrupted, taking a break from gulping down a massive mug of coffee. “Know your audience.”

“Everyone here?” Hotch asked, walking in and flicking on the lights, which earned him a collective hiss from the rest of the team. His shock at the reaction quickly turned to faint amusement. “More importantly, is everyone capable of working today without throwing up in a trashcan?”

“I’ll do my best, Sir, but I make no promises,” said Garcia, who definitely looked the worst for wear.

“Well, good, because Internal Affairs requested the Use of Deadly Force reviews early this year.”

Another groan from everyone, with the exception of you, who had no idea what reports he was referring to. As if reading your mind, Hotch turned to you and explained, “Use of Deadly Force reviews are required reports we fill out annually in which we analyze and justify every situation where deadly force was used against a subject. I know you weren’t here for most of these, but you can still help type them up, and it’ll be helpful to go over the cases for your learning.”

You nodded, not thrilled to watch the team dredge up the worst moments of the past year, but thrilled that today’s task didn’t require you to move from your chair. Hotch slid a box of files onto the table, reminded you all that he’d be in his office if you needed anything, and took his leave.

“Doesn’t he have to go over these with us, seeing as…” you trailed off, unsure how to speculate that Hotch was probably the one to take the shot in at least half of these cases.

Morgan knew what you were trying to say. “He goes over them before we submit the reports to Internal Affairs.” He grabbed the top file from the box and grimaced. “The Toelle case, man, remember that one?”

Prentiss sighed and rubbed her temples. “Just when I thought I might get through the day without losing my breakfast.”

____________

You pushed your laptop away and slouched back into your chair. “I need a break.”

It was a miracle you’d made it to this point, honestly - your headache was now raging despite pain relievers, and you’d spent half the day meticulously poring over the actions of some of the BAU’s most gruesome killers. (Prentiss was right - the Toelle file had been enough to make everyone, even Reid, turn a little green).

“You doing alright, kiddo?” Rossi asked, peering over the file he was reading.

“Just hungover. Went a little harder than I expected to, ya know?”

“What happened with Hotch last night?” Reid asked.

“Reid!” JJ admonished. 

Morgan shrugged. “Hey, we’re all thinking it. We saw him drag you outside, then he stormed back in and left. How’d you manage to piss him off so bad?”

“I’m surprised you noticed anything. You were pretty occupied,” Rossi said, raising his eyebrows towards Garcia, who flushed scarlet. 

You laughed and sent a silent thank you to Rossi for taking the heat off of you. 

“He just told me the guy I was dancing with was on coke and that I shouldn’t hang out with him.” You shrugged. “It was weird and I kinda freaked out on him at first, but I guess he was right.”

That didn’t get the nonchalant response you expected - everyone looked just as confused as you were when Hotch had initially approached you.

“Wait, hold on,” Prentiss said, sitting forward. “He told you not to dance with that guy because he was on drugs?”

“Yeah,” you replied, “He said after Garcia got attacked by that one man, everyone on the team needs to be more careful about who they associate with. Is that not… the case…?"

You trailed off, because judging by the looks the rest of the team were exchanging, it definitely _wasn’t._

JJ shook her head. “Hotch has never really cared what we do in our private lives unless it affects our job.”

“Yeah, like remember that time you dated Will for a _year_ without telling us and we had to pretend we didn’t know?” Prentiss asked, grinning.

“Or that time _you_ hooked up with the mail guy and you made us sign for your packages for the next month?” Morgan ribbed back at Prentiss.

“I was _drunk_ -”

“I think you should talk to Aaron,” Rossi suggested gently over what was quickly becoming a team debate over who had the craziest love life.

Still reeling over the knowledge that Hotch’s erratic behavior towards you wasn’t merely some standard attempt to keep the team safe, you nodded and stood.

_It was time for some answers, god damn it._

The righteous indignation that spurred you towards Hotch’s office was quickly being replaced by nervousness as you neared. You considered turning back, but you were sure he heard you stomping down the hall, and you weren’t trying to make a habit of awkwardly hesitating outside like you had at his apartment. Despite his door being ajar, you knocked gently, and he looked up from his standard mound of paperwork and nodded. 

“Come in.”

You obliged and sat down across the desk from him, twiddling your fingers. He waited for you to speak, never one to opt out of awkward silence.

“I think we should talk about what happened last night. Sir.”

He cocked his head slightly, setting down his pen and folding his hands in front of him.

“What are you referring to?”

You hated how he did this - it was an interrogation tactic, you knew that. He’d make the subject describe a situation with which both parties were clearly familiar to get _their_ interpretation of events, which was usually very telling. And, more importantly, it made them uncomfortable.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m _referring_ to you pulling me away from the group and telling me not to dance with that guy at the club.”

Hotch sighed and picked his pen back up, scanning his paperwork, making it very clear he felt this conversation wasn’t worth his time. “I explained my reasoning last night. If you take issue with the standards I expect of my team outside of the office-”

“But you don’t,” you blurted out, cutting him off.

“Don’t what?” he asked, now looking at you.

“Don’t expect that of your team,” you explained. “I talked to them about it just now. They said you’ve never acted that way before.”

“Their interpretation of events may be different-”

“It’s not their interpretation,” you interrupted for the second time. “They told me about all their dating escapades and you’ve never made it your business, not once. Why am I different to you?”

You hadn’t intended that last part to come out the way it did, and you cringed at the vulnerability in your tone. He was silent for one, two seconds, and you knew then he was making a decision, that the answer to your question wasn’t the simple truth he’d projected it to be.

“You’re the youngest member of the team, and the least experienced. I feel a responsibility to make sure you don’t make any decisions that you may regret. I’m sorry if you felt I was out of line.”

The detachment in his tone felt like a punch to the gut. Some part of you had been secretly wishing, you supposed, that his actions betrayed something deeper - that you _were_ different to him, and not just because you were young and naive. And when the team had reacted the way they did, you’d gotten your hopes up that it _had_ meant something. Just like him telling you about his past. Just like him killing Matthews. Just like… _it didn’t matter._ Even if he had been lying just now, it wouldn’t have changed anything. He wasn’t letting you in because he didn’t _want_ to. You’d overestimated your significance in his life, but in reality, you were probably no more than a blip on his radar. Hotch was the sun, the central point to which everyone around him was drawn, and you were a lonely, distant planet that had somehow convinced yourself you were close enough to have gotten burned. 

Choking back undeserved tears, you left his office, fighting the bile that was finally rising from your stomach, realizing that this was about to be the second time in as many days that your feelings for him had made you puke.

____________

When Matthews lunged at you, he hadn’t spared a thought, not a _moment_ for consideration before breaking his neck. He knew, even as he felt the vertebra detach from its seat in the base of the skull, that there had been other paths - not that killing him was unrequited, of course, but it was a last-resort type of action, and Hotch had never been a last-resort type of man. Morgan hadn’t questioned it, not beyond a hushed, “You good?” after the whole thing went down, but he could sense his shock at the fact that Hotch was the one to go straight for lethality.

And your reaction - that was what kept him awake at night. Not killing the suspect; it was a sick truth, but he’d killed far too many people by now to have that same nauseous, horrified reaction he did the first few times. No, it was the way you looked at him afterwards. He’d expected shock, panic - hell, even complete disgust - but you’d looked at him like he was your hero. Like he was _good,_ somehow. And he’d wanted to correct every day since, say, “No, you’ve got me wrong, I’m not what you think I am,” but he hadn’t mustered up the courage. He’d grown to need that look, if he was being honest with himself; _needed_ someone to gaze upon him with the admiration and respect and doe-eyed _awe_ that you did, because sometimes it was the only thing that kept him from going home alone to his apartment and shattering every mirror in the fucking place so he didn’t have to look at his reflection.

So when you’d asked him - all flushed face and halting words and twisting fingers - why he’d acted the way he did, he _couldn’t_ be truthful with you. He’d answered with what should’ve been the truth, because he couldn’t tell you that he’d wanted to kick that boy’s teeth in from the minute he saw him touch you for daring to defile something so innocent and pure and good, even if you’d wanted it. _Especially_ if you’d wanted it, if he was being honest with himself.

This was all twisted, of course. There were a million ways to profile a man in his 50’s who thought the way he did about someone your age (not to mention his _employee,_ for fuck’s sake), none of them good. He’d deserved the raised eyebrow Rossi gave him before he stalked off to drag you from the dancefloor, and he’d more than deserved the constant, chiding internal voice scolding him whenever he paid too much attention to you, asked you an easy question just so he could see you light up at knowing the answer, divulged information he hadn’t talked about with anyone in years.

He saw how much his words affected you. You’d tried to hide it, but you were so endearingly bad at masking your feelings, and even though his stomach twisted to see you crushed, he felt a twinge of hope knowing you’d wanted a different answer. He _could’ve_ given you one that would have made you happier:

“You’re important to me.”

“I was worried about you.”

Even, “I wanted to spend time with you last night, instead.”

But those were all too adjacent to a truth that he starkly refused to consider.

So he let you down, because letting people down was something with which Aaron Hotchner had plenty of goddamn practice. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some fucking Hotch POV!!! It's sad boi hours, the angst is real, and he needs a hug.


	8. Heartbreak and Lattes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which decisions are made and overturned and many cups of coffee are drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only announcement for this week: I've started a new job, and my schedule is such that a weekly update is unlikely without the quality being verrrry questionable. Therefore, I've decided to move off a set schedule, but I PROMISE I will update at least twice a month. Check my tumblr @thedumpsterqueen for updates, I'll post a few days before I know when a new chapter is coming out. Thank you for your patience and understanding; I know a set schedule is preferable but I wanna make sure this doesn't go to shit. I love you guys <3

You were sulking.

Not enough to affect your work - you’d have to go through something much worse than heartbreak before you risked your internship. But your home life was beginning to resemble a timelapse straight out of an overdramatic teen movie wherein the protagonist’s crush asks someone else to prom. Your apartment was a pile of half-done laundry, takeout containers, and case files; your evenings filled with sad Spotify playlists and too much red wine. 

And work? Not much better. Seeing him stride into the office every morning, filled with power and purpose and completely oblivious to the fact that he had shoved your heart into a metaphorical blender with a simple response to a seemingly innocuous question was really starting to wear you down. You had been so _sure,_ that was the thing - so convinced by the team’s reaction to your story that it had all meant something. And maybe it had. But he had looked you in the face and _told you_ it didn’t, so that was the answer that mattered.

So maybe sulking was the wrong word. ‘Spiraling’ was more accurate. A controlled spiral, mitigated only by the fact that 1. you had appearances and responsibilities to maintain and 2. Aaron Hotchner wasn’t actually the reason you showed up to work every morning, despite what it had seemed lately.

And it _had_ seemed like that. You remembered getting the phone call that you had been accepted for an interview for the BAU internship, and the phone call that you made it to the final round, and finally the phone call that you had gotten the position - each more exciting than the last. You remembered meeting him, shaking his hand, completely oblivious to how much he was about to fuck up your life. Even when you first started to feel something for him, you convinced yourself it was nothing - a harmless crush wrought from your veneration and respect for one of the best in the field. Someone you admired. Someone you wanted to _be_ one day. But then he’d made the unfortunate move of revealing bits and pieces of himself to you, exposing tiny slivers of humanity and emotion you were convinced didn’t exist, until you realized he was a _person,_ an incredible one, and it wasn’t just admiration you felt anymore. It took all of a few months and a handful of genuine conversations until you were this far gone, and after he made it clear that your pining was one-sided, you knew you had to stop your fall there. 

So you tried.

You kept your conversations strictly professional. Avoided driving with him or sitting next to him on flights whenever possible. Disallowed yourself lingering glances. But it was still too goddamn much. _He_ was still too goddamn much.

The next case pushed you over the edge. It was bad (not just _normal_ bad, BAU bad), and it was no one’s fault, not really. You got called in late, the evidence was shoddy at best, and when all was said and done, you caught the unsub, but only after he’d killed 4 women. The last one died moments before you arrived and apprehended the killer, and despite the delay of those few minutes being, again, no one’s fault, the team was at each other’s throats the whole trip home. 

You were slouched in the corner of the plane trying to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. Morgan and Reid were sniping viciously about something completely unrelated to the case, because despite everything they’d just endured, they would never outright blame each other for what went wrong. Hotch, deciding he’d heard enough, raised his head slightly and said quietly,

“They’re not always going to end the way we want. We did all we could.”

And you were just _done._ You couldn’t stand to be around this pillar of strength and compassion and resolve. You needed to hate him for rejecting you, and you couldn’t. So you marched over to his seat, and, steeling yourself, you said what you’d been wanting to say since he broke your heart:

“I need a day off.”

It had sounded more dramatic in your head.

“A day off?”

You nodded. Hotch gathered himself, seeming to realize that such a request wasn’t unheard of (though perhaps in his department it essentially _was_ ) and nodded. 

“This case was difficult. I wish I could say exceptionally so. Get me your paperwork by tonight and take tomorrow off.”

You went back to your seat, relief overshadowed by disgust that it wasn’t, in fact, the 4 deaths you’d just been privy to that had broken you - it was the crush on your boss. You’d handled this case like a champ, in fact, because you were so absorbed in self-pity that you couldn’t feel anything else.

You needed to fucking recalibrate.

***

You were determined to make the next 24 hours the most self-indulgent, healing 24 hours you’d ever experienced. Quiet breakfast at a cafe? Planned. Self-improvement books? Downloaded. Vibrator? Fully charged. 

No man was going to keep you from focusing on the internship you’d been gunning for for years. No man was worth that. You were going to cry, you were going to journal, you were going to masturbate, and you were going to get him out of your head.

You were going to march into the quaint little coffeeshop two blocks away that you’d Googled last night, you were going to order the cinnamon spice latte that an indie food blog had called “the epitome of fall,” and you were going to go for a nice, early morning walk.

Except you weren’t. 

Because the next morning, when you turned to leave after grabbing your drink from the barista, you saw Hotch sitting at the table by the window. And Hotch saw you. And you weren’t equipped to handle this situation, because you were only 4 pages into your self-help book so far and honestly, the smile that lit up his face when you made eye contact would’ve broken you even if you’d read all the ‘how to move on’ manuals the literary world had ever produced.

So you obeyed his beckoning hand and sat down. 

“Thought you’d be up to something much more exciting on your one day off.”

You smiled wryly. “This is exciting. I haven’t had coffee that wasn’t made out of an ancient breakroom pot or a hotel carafe in months.”

Hotch chuckled. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake by coming here. Breakroom coffee is going to be impossible to tolerate now.”

“That good, huh?”

“Better. Try it.”

His eyes on you, you took a sip of your latte, and swallowed the most delicious concoction you’ve ever tasted in your life.

“Holy shit.”

“Indeed,” Hotch confirmed, ignoring your vulgarity. “I’ve been coming here before work for years.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I impose on your hangout,” you laughed. “I haven’t tried many coffee shops around here, but I imagine this is hard to beat.”

“Not at all. But just know - this is my table.”

You grinned. “Understood.”

You still went on that walk. Still read that book. Still spent the day trying to think about anything else but the softness of that moment - you and Hotch sipping lattes, bathed in the light of the early morning sun.

But on Thursday, the next day, bright and early, you found yourself at that coffee shop again. This time, you took a seat at the table adjacent to his. He looked up and smiled.

“Glad you heeded my advice.”

You smiled back and gestured to the heaping pile of files in front of him. “Not like there’d be much room for me anyways.”

You finished your coffees in relative silence and left at the same time for the office.

Friday, you learned Hotch’s coffee order: flat white with an extra shot of espresso. 

Saturday, you happened to arrive before he did, so you ordered his drink and set it on his table. Ten minutes passed and you thought he wasn’t going to show up, but he soon bustled in looking frantic. You waved him over, and he smiled when he saw the coffee waiting for him.

“Sorry, got stuck on a phone call,” he apologized. Like you were expecting him. Like this was something you guys did now.

You supposed it was.

Sunday, you got called for a case before you even made it to the coffee shop. You sat down in the conference room at 6 am, groggy as all hell. Hotch entered after you and handed you a mug, saying nothing before moving to address the team.

There was a small sticky note attached to the mug that read, “It’s no cinnamon spice latte, but it’s caffeine just the same.”

You fought to keep a grin from splitting your face, and ignored the team’s knowing smirks.

The case was in a small town in Colorado. The motel the team was staying in was less than ideal because of the location - bare bones, broken heaters, probably had the same bedsheets since its opening over 50 years ago. There was a small coffee pot in your room, and after you arrived Sunday evening, you walked down the street to the small convenience store and bought a bag of ground coffee.

When you handed him the cup Monday morning, he looked at it like it was salvation itself. Which, judging by the dark circles under his eyes, it may well have been.

“Long night?” you asked, loading into the back of the SUV. 

“Always,” he responded from the front seat. He took a sip of the coffee. “I don’t mean to offend, but this is terrible.”

You gasped in mock indignation. “I’ll have you know that is genuine Folgers pre-ground gas station coffee.”

“It tastes like it was made in a toilet,” he grumbled. He took another sip and smirked at you in the rearview mirror.

You’d long stopped trying to get over him.

After the case in Colorado, the team was given a merciful break from the rapid-fire calls they’d been caught up in the last few months. 

You and Hotch continued your pre-work ritual, showing up to the coffee shop earlier and earlier each day. For you, it was a conscious attempt to spend more time with him. He didn’t acknowledge the extra 20 minutes that had worked its way into the morning routine, but you could only hope his intentions were the same.

One particularly chilly fall day, you burst in the door 10 minutes later than your unofficial meeting time. Hotch shot you a patented raised eyebrow as you unwrapped your scarf and took your seat. 

“Overslept?”

“No,” you retorted, “I was trying to make breakfast and my stove stopped working. Again. Maintenance can’t come fix it for two days.”

“Did you eat?” he asked.

“No, I was just gonna grab a muffin or something here.”

He nodded and went back to his laptop.

The next day, you sat down to a metal thermos on your table.

“What’s this?” you asked him.

“Oatmeal,” he responded without looking up. “You said your stove was broken.”

You opened the thermos to a puff of brown sugar-scented steam and the feeling that your heart was going to burst out of your chest.

“Thank you,” you whispered, afraid your voice would crack if you spoke any louder.

He looked over at you with an expression softer than you’d ever seen him wear. “You’re welcome.”

A week later, you’d miraculously worked your way through the backed-up deluge of paperwork from the last few cases, and after clicking through the morning’s emails, you slammed your laptop shut.

“We should go for a walk,” you said to Hotch, who somehow still had a stack of files in front of him that was threatening to surpass the table’s weight capacity. 

“A walk?” Hotch asked, looking at the aforementioned files as if he were afraid they’d hear him considering the idea of a break.

“Yeah,” you responded. “Come on. It’s so pretty outside, and it’s gonna be too cold soon. Besides, we’re more caught up with work than we have been in months.”

“Speak for yourself,” he quipped, but he packed his briefcase just the same.

It really _was_ beautiful outside. As soon as you stepped out the door, a gust of wind sent red and orange leaves skittering across the sidewalk at your feet. You wrapped your scarf tighter around your neck and motioned to the park across the street.

“Want to walk through the park?”

Hotch shrugged, a noncommittal ‘yes’, and followed you.

The park was sprawling, packed with massive trees in the midst of displaying their autumnal colors. Despite the early hour, there were joggers and dog-walkers populating the dirt path that meandered through. You strolled side by side, making idle chat about the weather and the holidays coming up, until you came to a bench set beside a pond in a small grove. Hotch took a seat and you followed his lead.

Reclining your head against the back of the bench, you exhaled. “This is the closest I’ve come to being out in nature in forever. I need to do this more often.”

Hotch murmured his agreement. “I’d apologize for the lack of free time, but I’m afraid it only gets worse.”

“When you officially join the team, you mean?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Assuming that’s something you’re interested in.”

“Of _course_ I am,” you said, “but I didn’t think it was really up to me.”

“It’s not - I give the final recommendation.”

“Better start buying you more coffees then,” you teased, looking over at him.

“Unfortunately, as Unit Chief, I have a responsibility not to accept bribery.” He smiled back.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You studied his face - the stern curve of his brow, the carved structure of his jaw, the stress lines set in from decades of sleepless nights and unspeakable losses. Despite the increasing time you’d been spending in close proximity, you were mesmerized, as always, by the stormy intensity of his eyes meeting yours. You were close enough to smell his cologne, and you were reminded of the night in his apartment when he told you about his family. If you thought you’d fallen for him then, it was nothing compared to how you felt now, after starting each morning sitting beside him in the quiet peace of that downtown coffee shop.

“We should get going,” he murmured, not checking his watch, not shifting his gaze from yours. You nodded, not fully comprehending his words, feeling dazed at his nearness.

It was impossible to tell who made the first, imperceptible shift. All you knew is you scarcely had time to think before his hand was on your jaw, cradling the back of your head, bringing you to him. His mouth met yours and you closed your eyes instinctively, melting into his warm body beside you, fisting the front of his jacket in your hands.

You couldn’t remember ever having been kissed so decisively before. His fingers gripped into the base of your skull, his forehead nearly pressed against yours, and despite the chastity of your closed mouths, you whimpered into his. He stiffened at the sound and pulled back, still holding you, inches away.

You _saw_ the shift in his eyes before he moved. It was as if he consciously closed some gate, walling himself off. His pupils, blown, started to retract to their normal size, frown returned, hand drew back. You watched, heart still racing, unable to speak as he turned to grab the briefcase sitting at his feet. Only then did he look back at you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and if his low voice was meant to betray any hint of emotion, you didn’t hear it. 

He stood, walked around the back of the bench towards the path, and paused.

“I’ll see you at the office.”

You were too shell-shocked to reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this one put you through a fraction of the emotional turmoil it put me through writing it. :) Aaron Hotchner is a big dumb emotionally damaged robot but we are GETTING THERE. Perhaps.


	9. Hesitancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you prepared for this to go south?” he asked, eyes boring into yours. 
> 
> “Why would it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changing the chapter naming scheme, my brain can't handle two-word summaries anymore. This one is a lil short but very soft and I promise relationship progress is made ;)

There was no way in hell you could go into work today.

You didn’t actually have a choice, which is why you’d driven there. But you simply couldn’t command your feet to walk you into that office, towards the teams’ inquisitive stares and deductive skills that were closer to mind-reading than you were entirely comfortable with. You’d adjusted and re-adjusted your lipgloss several times over in the mirror, brushed through your hair, and even though you knew there was no way the team could know what happened 20 minutes ago in the park, you felt like you might as well have been wearing a neon sign that said “Aaron Hotchner and I Just Kissed (On the Lips).”

So you were holed up in the parking garage of the FBI in your piece of shit 2007 Toyota Camry. Stalling.

You sighed when you felt your phone buzz, knowing what the notification was. You were only seven minutes late, but seven minutes was eight too many in Hotch’s book. You checked the message.

**Hotch:** _Please come inside._

So he knew you were hiding out, then. You sighed and slammed the car door, trudging up the stairwell and into the building. 

Exiting the elevator to your floor, you paused outside of the frosted glass doors leading to the BAU and tried to still your breathing. Despite Hotch’s apparent instant regret and quick departure occupying the forefront of your mind, you still couldn’t stop thinking about how perfect that kiss had been. The part of you that wasn’t filled with panic about his reaction was squealing like a little kid at the confirmation that _holy shit, he liked you too._ You took a deep breath, summoned every ounce of professionalism and composure you could muster, and walked in.

You made it less than halfway to your desk.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa; don’t just walk in here like I’m gonna let that slide.” Morgan swung his legs off his desk and stood up in front of you. “Every day you get in at _least_ ten minutes early and now you’re walking in late looking like you got something to hide. Spill it.”

Your open-mouthed gaping by way of response was blissfully interrupted by Hotch calling your name from the balcony overlooking the bullpen. 

“Garcia needs your help finishing up reports. Meet her in her office.”

You shrugged to Morgan. “Duty calls. Sorry!”

“Don’t think you’re getting off that easy!” he called after you as you scampered towards the safety of Garcia’s tech lair.

You knocked on her door, and she greeted you with her standard excess of enthusiasm.

“Come in! I’m just going through my keylogs for the past few cases and filling out reports of every database I had to access less-than-legally.” She shot you an evil grin. “Which is a lot. You can help me by typing up the information into the actual reports on your computer.”

Just happy to be away from the teams’ prying eyes, especially a certain someone’s, you nodded. “Let’s do it.”

***

Not half an hour had passed when Garcia swiveled towards you in her chair, clutching her pink feathered pen with a knowing glint in her eyes. “So. Tell me.”

“What?” you asked, trying to hide your shock with feigned innocence.

“Oh, honey, come on. I may not be a profiler, but I’ve picked up a couple things throughout the years. And I can tell something’s up.”

“God damn it,” you groaned and laid back in your chair. “I thought this was a no-profiling zone.”

She smiled even wider, if that was possible. “It is. But for you, my dear, I have made an exception.”

“Did Morgan put you up to this?”

“He may have _possibly_ texted me telling me that you were late this morning.”

You rolled your eyes.

“But you’re never late! Even I know that! So -” she scooted closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially, “- spill.”

Sighing, you weighed your options. The last thing you wanted to do was create drama and jeopardize your position, much less Hotch’s reputation, but you were itching to tell someone - if only to get their opinion on the matter. And it wasn’t as if you had anyone else to talk to…

“Fine!”

Garcia rapidly motioned her hands to signify you to continue.

“But you can’t tell anybody, okay? I’m serious, Penelope.”

“Not even-”

“ _Especially_ not Morgan.”

She pouted but reluctantly agreed, and you took a deep breath and told her _everything_.

How you’d developed an innocent crush at first, how it had spiraled out of control, how you’d visited his apartment and he’d told you about his past, and finally, how he’d kissed you in the park just that morning. You stopped, awaiting her reaction, but she was uncharacteristically silent. 

“...Garcia?”

She cleared her throat and leaned forward. “I’m sorry, are we talking about _Aaron Hotchner_ , like Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, like boss man Aaron Hotchner? Mr. Grumpy? Never smiles, always wears a suit, carries the weight of the world on his sculpted shoulders?”

You glared, waiting for her to finish.

“I’m sorry,” she giggled, “It’s just -” her voice softened, “- in the whole time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him act like that. Bring someone coffee, breakfast, _open up_ to them. The whole bit.”

Your heart fluttered more than you’d like to admit at that.

“Listen,” she continued, “I don’t have to tell you that life has not been kind to that man. And I’m not gonna give you the stupid speech about dating an older man or dating your boss, because I don’t give a shit. But I will tell you - he’s been through enough. So if this isn’t what you want, back out now.”

Her tone was kind, but the seriousness of her message was evident. You nodded in understanding.

“I get it, but I don’t think he’s the one that’s gonna end up getting hurt here.”

“Well, hopefully nobody will get hurt and you’ll both ride off into the sunset together. But you gotta talk to him first.” She ignored your pained groan. “I’m serious! Nothing good is going to come out of you guys dancing around this. People act _really_ stupid when they’re pretending they’re not in love with each other.”

Cocking your eyebrow, you shot back, “Kinda like you and Morgan?”

She flushed scarlet and waggled her ostentatious pen in your direction. “Touché.”

***

The thought of being emotionally vulnerable to Hotch made you more nauseous than you’d like to admit, but the more you mulled over it, the more you realized Garcia was right. Hotch knew how you felt - your fervent response to the kiss had made that abundantly clear - so what did you have to lose, _really_? 

(Besides your career and the respect of your boss, but you tried not to consider that possibility).

_He’d kissed **you**_ _,_ you reminded yourself as you tried to focus on reports.

_He cares about you_ _,_ you recited like a mantra as you waited for the workday to end.

_He’s twice your age **and** a widower with a dead kid **and** your Unit Chief_ _,_ you panicked in the bathroom as you avoided the knowing eyes of the rest of the team.

Still, 6 pm limped in eventually and you bid everyone a good night from your desk as they filtered out. Hotch, unsurprisingly, was not among them. You planned to wait until you two were alone in the office so you could approach him undisturbed. 

What you didn’t expect was just how late he worked - it was nearly 9 by the time he locked up his office, briefcase in hand, and turned to see you still sitting at your desk.

“Oh,” he said. You tried to decipher the tone of the syllable - surprised? Pleased? Indifferent? But came up short.

“I thought we could talk,” you offer cautiously.

“About wha-” he began, then seemed to think better of pretending he didn’t know and sighed. “You’re right. We should.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it. “I wanted to apologize for my actions this morning. I took advantage of a situation where you felt comfortable spending time with me outside of the office, and I should have never let it get that far. If you want to speak to Strauss about transferring units, I completely understand.”

You gaped at him. Was it truly possible for a man this astute, this in-tune with human behavior, to be this _stupid?_

“Is that what you think this is?” you asked, practically launching yourself out of your seat from the sheer force of your bewilderment. “You think you took advantage of me? That I just went along with it because you’re my _boss_ or something?”

The barely concealed shame in his eyes answered not only that question, but also the one you’d asked yourself beforehand - no, Hotch wasn’t stupid. He was _broken._ He was filled with so much self-hatred that the only explanation he could concoct as to why you were spending so much time with him was the one where you were trying to avoid offending your creepy, older boss. The realization filled you with such heartbreak that you nearly choked on your next words.

“Aaron,” you started, and it was strange how well a name you’d never before dared to say fit in your mouth, “I’ve -”

_Don’t say loved._

“- liked you since that case in San Diego. I don’t know how you haven’t figured that out, considering the fact that I wake up an hour early every morning - I _hate_ mornings, by the way - to get coffee with you. But I like you. And I know for a fact you feel the same way, so don’t try to pretend like you did after the bar.”

The number of times Hotch had been rendered speechless in his lifetime could be counted on one hand, and this made the list. You waited for him to respond, and he did, finally, in the most muted voice you’d ever heard him use.

“It isn’t right.”

“Please,” you implored, taking a step closer to him. “Don’t do that. You’re not going to talk me out of this, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop trying to talk yourself out of it too.”

“I’m your Unit Chief,” he said, his voice regaining the power that usually accompanied that statement, “and I’m old enough to be your father.”

“And I’m an adult fully capable of making her own decisions,” you responded.

“The practicalities; they’d be a mess. Informing the Bureau, the team…”

“Would I have to quit my internship?” you asked, your only genuine hesitancy surrounding the situation.

“Well, no,” he shook his head slowly, “but we'd be subject to a much higher level of scrutiny.”

“I’m prepared to be scrutinized.”

“Are you prepared for this to go south?” he asked, eyes boring into yours. 

“Why would it?”

He didn’t say anything, but you could tell what he was thinking. A man like him, someone who carried more than a few lifetimes of trauma and guilt, wasn’t someone to get involved with on a whim - for both of your sakes. This was more so the concern, you suspected, than anything he’d already mentioned.

“I know what I’m getting into, Hotch. I’m not expecting this to be easy.”

“Well, I -” he shifted uncomfortably, more visibly nervous than you’d ever seen him. “Can I least give you time to think about it?”

“Doubt I’ll be able to think about anything else,” you teased, and, with a sudden surge of courage, you stepped forward on your tiptoes to plant a feather-light kiss on his cheek. 

The flush that spread up his neck was, decidedly, the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Hotch actually,,,,, expressing his feelings? Watch out y'all, the world may be ending.


	10. Accommodations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some creep is stalking the team and all you can think about is kissing Hotch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys again for being so kind about the new posting schedule (or lack thereof). Your comments and messages on tumblr always make me laugh and cry (in a a good way). <3 This is just a lil chapter about them being awkward and cute after The Kiss, and introducing some bigger plot stuff. You'll wanna buckle up for the next one ;)

The BAU had a stalker.

To put it in a way more relevant to your views on the matter: the BAU’s stalker was interfering with the (hopefully) budding spark between you and Hotch.

It wasn’t that you didn’t _care_ that there was potentially unhinged maniac apparently obsessed with the team, it’s just that when you got the slightly panicked phone call from JJ that Morgan, Reid, Garcia, and herself had all found letters on their doorstep professing an alarming fascination with the members of the team, you couldn’t help but feel a bit irritated that the ordeal was bound to put a pause on the progress you two had made.

That is, until you went to leave your apartment in the morning and found an unassuming envelope shoved under the door. You opened it with shaking fingers to a note written on thick cardstock, scrawled in black, seeping ink as if written by an old-fashioned quill.

_I’ve been paying attention to your team for some time - quite the impact you’ve made on the world of crime. The heroes of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit! I’m sure the world wishes they had you during Bundy or BTK, hm?_

_Anyways, I had to see for myself. I must admit, finding you was much easier than I would have anticipated given your ‘status.’ I thought I’d drop you this note to say hi and propose a deal. A Game, of sorts._

_The Game goes like this: I leave you notes, and you try to catch me! Easy, yes? This is day 1. How many days until you find me?_

_Xoxo Talk soon,_

_G_

You put the note in your bag and, after double checking your door was locked (not that the flimsy deadbolt the landlord had installed would have done much to keep an intruder out anyways), you rushed to the office. You dropped your note on the table in the conference room where the team had gathered and pointed at it tremulously. 

“I got one too. I touched it, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rossi interrupted. “We dusted the others; there was nothing. I doubt yours was any different.”

Hotch plucked your letter up and scanned it quickly before tossing it back on the table. “It’s exactly the same as the others. Nothing identifiable.”

“Why didn’t we get them?” asked Prentiss.

“Access,” said Garcia, notably less cheery than usual. The team turned to her for clarification.

“You three are hard to get to,” she explained. “Hotch and Prentiss live in secure apartment buildings. Rossi has a gated property with security that can rival the president’s. Those of us who don’t live the high life are just... out in the open.”

“So that’s encouraging, right? That the unsub either couldn’t or wouldn’t go through the extra trouble of getting to all of us?” JJ asked, hopeful.

Morgan shook his head. “I dunno if you can interpret any part of what this creep is doing to intimidate us as ‘encouraging.’”

“Does it read as intimidation, though?” mused Reid. 

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Morgan responded. “What’s your take on the language?”

Reid took a millisecond to reread the letter and pursed his lips. “Though the language isn’t directly threatening, the concept of a game implies either winning or losing. He - it’s almost certainly a he - doesn’t mention the consequences for either situation, which could imply that there are none, but that seems unlikely. There’s also the matter of separating himself from others in line three - ‘I’m sure the world wishes _they_ had you during Bundy or BTK,’ not _we._ He’s trying to distinguish himself to us in some way, which means he wants to be noticed, and I don’t think there’s anything in this language that excludes the possibility of him doing something drastic in order to be.”

“So _not_ encouraging,” said Prentiss dryly. “The question is, why us? Is this personal; did we put someone close to him away?”

“It could be, but the language in the opening seems sarcastic almost, like he’s mocking us,” noted Rossi. 

Morgan nodded in agreement. “It’s a challenge. He’s trying to tell us we’re not all we’re cracked up to be.”

The analysis worried you, because you felt you were the only member of the team for whom that statement might have been true. 

“So, what then?” you asked. “Review security footage and see if we can find anything?”

“Already did!” chirped Garcia. “Hotch had me up all night reviewing the tapes.”

For the first time, you noticed the dark circles under her standard coat of heavy makeup. You looked at Hotch, expecting to find some shame in his expression, but found none. 

“If there was anyone weird creeping around your dwellings last night, I didn’t see ‘em. I even looked through the street cameras in the area. Granted, none of you have a security camera pointed directly at your door, which _might_ not be a bad idea after this -”

“Hold on,” Morgan interrupted, “you didn’t check her apartment though, right?” referring to you. “Cuz she just found it this morning?”

Garcia perked up, but you shot her down with a shake of your head. “Sorry guys, my place isn’t nearly nice enough to have security cameras.”

The team looked unperturbed by that, except for Hotch, who met your eyes with a look you couldn’t quite place. 

“What do we do, then? Wait for another letter?” JJ asked.

“That’s all we can do until we have more evidence,” said Hotch, visibly frustrated. He hated waiting, you knew that. You all hated it. It felt like watching a car without its parking brake on slowly start to roll down a hill.

“If that’s all, sir…”

Hotch nodded at Garcia. “You’re all dismissed. Business as usual for now. If he craves acknowledgement, best not to give it to him unless we have to.”

The team filtered out, and you made to follow them, but before making it through the doorway, Hotch called you back. He shifted feet, cleared his throat, and looked at you.

“About the comment you made earlier,” he started.

 _What comment?_ You wracked your brain trying to remember if you’d said something rude, or something that hinted at what happened between you two, but came up short.

He noticed the puzzled look on your face and clarified. “When you said your apartment complex wasn’t nice enough to have security cameras. I wanted to say that -” he ran his hand across his jaw, clearly uncomfortable, “- I know the internship salary isn’t impressive, and if you feel you’re unable to afford safe accommodation, I’d be more than happy to talk to Strauss about -”

“Oh, God, no.” You felt as if your face was on fire. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, my apartment is _fine_ \- I mean of course there’s things that could be improved - but in no way do I feel unsafe.” 

“Well, good. Okay then.”

Before you could make your exit and spare you both from the residual awkwardness of the interaction, he spoke again. “There’s one more thing. Given that whoever wrote this note has displayed his willingness to come to our doorsteps, JJ is staying with Emily for the time being, Reid with Rossi, and Garcia with Morgan.”

You smirked at the last pairing. Leave it to those two to capitalize on a stalker to bunk up together. 

“I was going to have the Bureau get you a hotel in the meantime, since he did come to your apartment, but Garcia suggested that since we live so close, you could just… stay with me.”

_Holy shit._

There was a pained look on his face as he finished the sentence as if he recognized what an utterly bad idea it was, but hadn’t had the good sense to reject it himself. He looked at you, expecting an answer despite the lack of a question mark at the end of that statement, and you struggled mightily to compose yourself to deliver an acceptance that didn’t appear uncomfortably enthusiastic. 

You must have taken too long, because he immediately started to retract his offer. “I already told her it was completely inappropriate; the rest of the team is used to staying together for cases but given you just started, and after the last few days I completely understand -”

“No!” You cut him off. “Sorry, no, that’s not what I was going to say at all. I’d love to. I mean, I think it’s a good idea. I’d feel a lot safer…”

_‘With you around?’ Is that too much?_

_Fuck it._

“... with you around,” you finished, and you swear you saw him push back a smile.

“Alright, then. I’ll let Garcia know.”

You made a mental note to send that woman a thank-you card.

***

As the workday wound down, you were surprised to Hotch turn out his office light and walk out at the same time as you did.

“Early night?” you teased as you walked to your cars in the parking garage, despite it being 7 pm. 

He chuckled. “It would have been rude of me to keep you hanging around until I decided to leave.”

Right. You were leaving together. Because you were going back to his apartment. Together. The undeniable domesticity of the moment put a skip in your step, and you couldn’t help but wish this was happening under different circumstances.

“So I’ll just stop by my apartment and grab my things?”

“What? No,” Hotch responded, frowning. “I’m coming with you. The whole point of all of this is to avoid being alone.”

And that’s how you ended up speeding down the highway like a madwoman, leaving Hotch in your dust, taking the stairs two at a time, and frantically scrambling to get your apartment in order. It wasn’t terrible; not as if you had rotting food sitting out or something (probably because you didn’t actually cook enough for that), but the recent caseload and spending so much time with Hotch in the mornings had certainly pushed general organization to the wayside. You shoved the growing pile of dirty laundry into your closet, straightened up the coffee table, and were in the middle of packing your suitcase when you heard a knock at the door.

Giving the apartment a quick once-over to make sure you hadn’t missed something utterly humiliating, you opened the door to an unimpressed Hotch.

“I could have pulled you over for speeding, you know,” he said as he strode into your living room.

“Yeah, sorry,” you said sheepishly, “I wanted to make sure this place wasn’t a mess the first time you saw it.”

He cocked an eyebrow and you realized how that came out - _the first time,_ as if there were going to be many more - and you coughed and looked away.

“Anyways. I’m almost done packing, just gotta grab a couple more things.”

He nodded and you hurried to it, wanting to get him out of your apartment as quickly as possible. Normally you’d have jumped at the chance to be alone in a quiet place with him, but the way his eyes were scanning the room made you nervous that he was learning more about you in a very short amount of time than you felt entirely comfortable with.

***

You walked into Hotch’s apartment for the second time ever to find it just as clinically neat as before, except for a set of sheets and blankets laid out on the couch. Grinning, you gestured to them.

“Thought you said you were sure I would say no?”

It was his turn to be shamefaced. “Just in case. Besides,” he shot back, grabbing your bags from where you’d deposited them by the couch, “You’re taking the bed.”

“Like hell I am!” you scoffed, forgoing propriety. “I’m not making my boss sleep on the couch in his own apartment.”

“Considering I, as you mentioned, am your _boss,_ ” he responded, “I will be making that decision.”

You plopped down on the couch. “Unless I just refuse to move.”

He stood a few paces away and glared, but gave up and dropped your bags all the same.

You could have sworn you heard him mutter _“brat"_ under his breath, but that didn’t sound like something Aaron Hotchner would say, did it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES this is ending right as it gets ~good~ but trust me, you'll forgive me when the next update comes out. Promise.


	11. Dreams (of Both Sorts)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t know that I was starving ‘til I tasted you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the fucking tags, folks <3

You were midway through sautéing a pan full of chicken when your frustration started to bubble up. Just a little. 

Besides your little spat about who was taking the couch, a victory about which you were still smug, Hotch had been the perfect gentleman all evening. He’d cleared the coffee table for your things, showed you how to work the TV, put your toiletry bag in the bathroom, even offered you a glass of wine (which you’d readily accepted). When you’d inquired about dinner, he’d produced all the ingredients for chicken alfredo, a dish he knew you loved because you ordered it at every available restaurant the team stopped at during your travels. The intimacy of the gesture had knocked you off your feet at first, and you’d hoped it was a sign that he wanted your stay there to be more than a necessity brought on by dangerous circumstances, but as the night wore on, this began to seem less and less likely.

It’s not that he was being unwelcoming, nor cold. But the Hotch that you’d gone to breakfast with every day, the one who kissed you with such passion on that park bench, who nervously navigated a conversation about a possible future _relationship_ with you - that man was gone and replaced by a professional who seemed to only maintain the capacity for small talk. You knew the man was all business, and you’d expected him to be distracted by the threat to his team, but you hadn’t anticipated this situation being quite so hard to navigate.

Still, if you stopped thinking about it, you could easily pretend you were here under different pretenses. That Hotch had asked you to come over after work, offered you a drink, slid behind you and distracted you by planting kisses to the back of your neck while you cooked. That you’d easily let him, giggling all the while, and that the constraints of your job didn’t matter.

You stole a look at him, to your left, looking deep in concentration as he chopped vegetables for the pasta. He’d shucked his suit jacket and tie, and the white button-up he was wearing rolled up to his elbows was certainly making the fantasy more vivid - albeit its absence more painful.

He caught you looking and met your gaze with a half smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. 

***

Dinner passed with minimal conversation and Hotch buried in his laptop. He’d told the team earlier that there was no point in worrying about the stalker until something substantive happened, but you weren’t surprised he didn’t seem to be taking his own advice. Inaction, however seemingly appropriate, was never his style.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” you blurted out in desperation.

Hotch froze in the middle of his furious typing and looked at you like you’d sprouted two heads.

“A movie?” he repeated, clearly incredulous. 

“Yes,” you replied, regretting your outburst more by the second.

He looked as if he was going to say something but changed his mind, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to get through these reports -”

You nodded, shame souring your gut. “No worries, I totally get it.”

***

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with him?”

Your question was hissed through the phone the second Garcia picked up, having been afforded a brief moment alone as Hotch went to shower. As much as you’d loved to have been distracted imagining the scene behind the bathroom door, you figured your time was best spent contacting your sole confidant and one of the few people on the planet who may have some insight into your boss’ behavior.

“Whoa, honey, hang on! What do you mean?” Garcia asked. You heard a series of whispers and shuffling over the line that under any other circumstances would have demanded an explanation, but you were too frustrated and too rushed to bring attention to it. 

“Hotch. He’s acting like nothing happened. He barely even talks to me. I asked him to watch a _movie,_ ” you pinched the bridge of your nose, reliving the embarrassment, “and he looked at me like I was insane. The same man who kissed me less than three fucking days ago!”

“So we’re talking, like, _full_ robot,” Garcia said. You nodded in confirmation despite her not being able to see it.

“Yes. And now he’s in the shower - which is why I’m talking fast, sorry - but what do I _do?_ ” 

“Well, you could always be upfront with him!” She paused for a second as if letting her own words sink in. “No, don’t do that. That’s terrible advice. That’ll just freak him out. Uhhh… hang on. And don’t be mad.”

More shuffling sounds from the other line, then Morgan’s voice came through.

“Hey, so Garcia told me what’s going on. I know she wasn’t supposed to, but you know my baby girl. She’s terrible at lying.”

You wanted to be mad, but honestly, what the hell had you expected?

“It’s fine,” you sighed. You’d deal with the humiliation another day, but now, you just wanted answers. “Got any sage words of wisdom for me?”

“Honestly, I know you’re not gonna like this, but I think you just gotta let him come to you.”

Morgan was right; that prospect was not appealing in the slightest.

“I’ve known the man forever,” he continued. “You can’t force anything outta him. He’s probably overthinking the shit out of it and trying to keep it professional, and I’m sure the whole situation isn’t helping. He gets real buggy when someone comes after the team like this. You gotta just give him time.”

“Ugh, well, thanks guys. Hey, I just heard the shower turn off, so I have to go. Tell Garcia I’ll kick her ass later.”

Morgan chuckled. “I’m sure you will. Good luck.”

You hung up the phone and stared at your hands. The answer Morgan had given you wasn’t the one you wanted, but it was more than likely correct. From the little you knew about the inner workings of Hotch’s mind, you could tell he wasn’t the type to readily dive into emotional conversations - particularly on topics you knew he was already struggling with, like being involved with his much-younger inferior. 

Your resigned musings were interrupted by the sound of the bathroom door opening, and the sight that came through knocked the wind out of you. Hotch emerged with freshly toweled hair dripping down his forehead, clad in a black long-sleeve t-shirt and lounge pants that looked like they’d been tailored to his body.

“Feel free to use the bathroom, I left a clean towel in there for you.”

Nodding mutely, you grabbed your pajamas and rushed in before you made a fool of yourself again.

***

You’d turned the water on as cold as it could go in an attempt to ice out your stunningly inappropriate thoughts, to no avail. When you were finished in the bathroom, you headed back out to the couch, long sleeves of your oversized sweatshirt wrapped protectively around your body as if you could shield yourself from the sight of him lounging on the bed, still focused intently on the screen of his computer.

He looked up and scanned your body so quickly that you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t already been doing the same to him. “I leave the curtains open at night, is that alright with you? I’m up too early for the sun to bother me.” 

“Fine with me,” you responded, making a considerable effort to sound detached, and settled into the couch.

He nodded and flicked a switch by his bed, plunging the apartment into darkness. Your eyes adjusted gradually, and you could make out the glow of city lights behind the high, paneled windows, casting gently flickering reflections across the walls and ceiling. The effect was ethereal, and you immediately understood why he preferred to keep the curtains open.

“It’s beautiful,” you said under your breath, forgetting for a moment that you were supposed to be avoiding unnecessary conversation.

“Hm?”

“The apartment. All lit up like this. I love it.”

You heard blankets shifting, and imagined him rolling onto his back to look up at the lights. “It is. My real estate agent found it after I moved out of our house. I hadn’t put much consideration into what I wanted in an apartment, but this is why I’ve stayed since.”

His voice was already lower, softer, like he was falling asleep, and you tried to pretend it didn’t make your entire chest cavity ache. 

“Hey, Hotch?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for letting me stay here. And for welcoming me onto the team. I appreciate you.”

He was silent for a moment, then responded quietly.

“I appreciate you too.”

It was miles from what either of you wanted to say, but closer than you’d ever gotten.

***

You awoke to the sound of torrential rain battering the window panes. It was still dark, but the storm looked to be the kind to blot out any sort of sunlight even during daylight hours, so you rolled over and checked your phone.

2:17 am. You cursed internally, knowing the weather would make it nearly impossible for you to fall back asleep. Laying on your back, you watched the lightning flash across the ceiling, and listened to the crack of thunder split the otherwise peaceful, if overwhelming, drum of rain.

There was another sound too, you realized, that you could only hear in the lulls of the downpour when the wind directed the rain away from the building. A ragged gasping, the sort a wounded animal emits. At first you convinced yourself it was the wind whipping past the brick facade - _‘wind can sound very human,’_ your mother had patiently explained when you were little and had crawled into her bed, trembling with the conviction that there was someone outside your window - but then you shot up onto your elbows, remembering that you were currently sleeping less than twenty paces from another human who actually _could_ be making those sounds. 

You squinted in the direction of Hotch’s bed. The darkness made it difficult to perceive anything more than vague shapes, but as lightning flashed again, you saw the shape of his body thrash against the bed as his chest heaved.

_A nightmare, then._

You’d had the good fortune of evading nightmares yourself, so far, but you were no stranger to the sight, having shaken Reid awake from more than one when he fell asleep during your travels. The first time it’d happened, you pulled Morgan over to rouse him, feeling like the action was too personal for someone like you who’d, at the time, just joined the team weeks before. But the gratitude on Reid’s face when Morgan had woken him was enough to convince you it was the right thing to do from that moment forward. 

Despite knowing this, you remained propped up on the couch, straining to hear Hotch over the rain. You hoped he’d woken himself up and you wouldn’t be tasked with the responsibility, both for your sake, to avoid the inherent awkwardness, and his, to avoid the embarrassment. 

Idly, you wondered if this is why you’d never seen Hotch fall asleep on the jet.

Another strained gasp came from his direction. Resigned, you pushed yourself to your feet, padding across the floor quietly until you arrived at the side of his bed.

Hotch was on his back, lower half tangled in the covers, hands fisting the sheets at his sides. His face was screwed up in apparent pain, neck muscles visibly taut above his t-shirt, and as you watched, he heaved another shuddering breath that seemed to wrack his entire body.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, and you willed yourself to emotionally dissociate from the situation as you kneeled on the bed.

 _He’s your boss,_ you told yourself firmly. _You don’t cry when Reid gets nightmares; you shouldn’t cry when Hotch does._

Reaching out with a shaky hand, you grasped his shoulder firmly.

“Hotch,” you said, gently squeezing.

No response.

“Hotch, hey, wake up. You’re having a nightmare,” you repeated, more firmly this time, aiming to be heard over the still-raging storm.

His eyes flew open, and before you could open your mouth to speak again, you were flung over his body. You landed hard on your back on the other side, and despite the cushioning of the mattress, the throw was hard enough to force the breath out of your lungs with an ugly wheeze. In milliseconds, Hotch was on top of you, pinning your legs down with his own. You struggled against his grasp on instinct, until you felt the unmistakable chill of a gun barrel pressed against your temple.

Panicking, you fought to regain your breath before your boss blew your brains out all over his pillow.

“Stop!” you managed, willing your chest to expand.

He froze.

“It’s me,” you choked, before descending into a coughing fit.

Lightning illuminated his features, and you saw shocked recognition in his eyes before he tossed the gun across the room as though burned by it. He lifted his weight off of you immediately and knelt at the side of the bed as you rolled toward him in the fetal position.

“Oh my god,” he said, voice sounding nearly as ragged as yours. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m ok,” you responded, slowly regaining the ability to speak. 

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, and you were close enough to his face to see the panic in his expression. “I was having -”

“- a nightmare,” you finished. “I know. I was trying to wake you up.”

“I could’ve -”

“You didn’t, though,” you interrupted again, sitting up to face him with a wince. “I’m okay, I promise.”

He sat back on his heels and ran a hand down his face before standing up and offering you his hand. 

***

You dangled your feet off the stool you’d perched on, sipping the hot toddy Hotch had made you. The light fixture over the counter provided the only illumination in the entire apartment, and as you watched Hotch squeeze a lemon into the drink he was making himself, basked in the pale yellow glow, you found it concerningly easy to forgive him for almost murdering you ten minutes ago.

He looked up with a sigh, and you knew what he was about to say, because he’d been peppering you with apologies since you’d sat down.

“Stop,” you said, before he could get the words out. “Seriously. I’m fine. If you apologize one more time I’m telling the team you talk in your sleep.”

He scowled, but you could see some of the tension leaving his shoulders, and he sat down next to you.

“Thank you. For understanding.”

“Of course,” you smiled, unable to stop your eyes from traveling over the planes of his face, as they so often did when he was this close. “You can trust me, you know,” you added hesitantly. Were you even talking about the nightmare anymore? Probably not.

He regarded you contemplatively but didn’t respond. You sat in silence, listening to the rain and the thunder, sipping your warm drinks.

A particularly bright flash of lightning lit up the apartment, and almost immediately, it was followed by the explosive boom of a thunderclap. 

“That was _really_ -” you started, and the apartment was abruptly plunged into darkness.

“Power’s out,” Hotch muttered, and you stood up to go for your phone, intending to use it as a flashlight. Hotch apparently had the same idea, and you swiveled your stools towards each other, crashing into each other’s bodies when you stood up. Hotch was bigger, much bigger, and the force of the impact sent you back into your seat. You grabbed his arms to stabilize yourself, laughing, and the force of your sitting back pulled him forward enough for his hands to land on your thighs.

He huffed a breath in your face that smelled of whisky and cinnamon. His fingers were splayed across your bare legs, lighting your nerve endings on fire. You opened your mouth to make a joke, something to alleviate the tension, but your brain was short-circuiting. 

His right hand left your thigh and skimmed against your cheek, brushing a tendril of hair out of your eyes. You realized you were holding your breath.

“I want to kiss you again,” he said, after a long silence.

You wondered if you were perhaps still dreaming. “Please do.”

He ignored your pleading request and slowly ran the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip. 

“I’m afraid if I do,” he murmured, “I won’t be able to stop.”

You smiled slightly and cocked your head. “Who said you need to?”

He gave you a look that clearly asked if he really needed to answer that question.

“Aaron Hotchner,” you breathed, “you have a terrible habit of overthinking things.”

Summoning false confidence from some unknown source, you reached up and ran a shaky hand through his sleep-mussed hair. His eyes betrayed his internal battle, darting down to your lips and back up, and for a moment you thought you’d miscalculated. That he’d run. But then you entangled your fingers in the soft tresses at the nape of his neck and gave a gentle tug, and you watched the last shreds of reservation leave his eyes.

His mouth was on yours before you could process that he’d moved. He teased open your lips with his tongue until you were gasping, struggling to maintain the kiss as your pounding heart demanded more and more oxygen. He moved to your neck then, sucking deep bruises into your flesh.

Some part of your brain thought to protest the marks, knowing that even the most effective concealer wouldn’t hold up to the perceptive eyes of the rest of the team. 

The other part of you keened at the concept of Hotch marking you, claiming you as _his._

He slid his hands up to your hips, pulling you forward, and wedged a solid thigh between your legs. You ground against it greedily. Ordinarily, you’d have been embarrassed at your desperation, but the lust clouding your thoughts chased away all measures of shame.

“Hotch,” you begged, not entirely sure what for, but you knew you needed _something._

“Use your words,” he chided, but as you opened your mouth to speak, he latched onto the sensitive skin above your collarbone and sucked, swallowing your words in a moan.

“Bastard,” you muttered when you’d regained your breath. 

He smirked in response.

 _Of course_ he got off on this. It was an extension of the power he held in every aspect of his life, but now, there were no social niceties standing in his way. You certainly weren’t complaining; it’s not as if him barking orders to the team hadn’t inspired a fantasy or two. But you were a bit out of your depth, your few sexual experiences having been altogether mediocre and vanilla.

Still, you were a quick learner. 

“Fuck me, please. Sir,” you added, and _oh,_ he liked that. 

His eyes flashed and he hoisted you off the stool with ease, wrapping your legs around his waist and carrying you over to the bed. You stretched out on your back while he loomed over you, looking undeniably predatory.

“I need to ask you something,” he said, in between planting kisses along the length of your jaw.

“I _promise_ you, whatever you ask me, the answer is yes.” 

You weren’t lying. You’d do or say anything you wanted at this point. You couldn’t remember ever feeling this burning need - like if you didn’t feel his bare skin on yours immediately, you’d go insane.

He regarded you with a look that you registered as slightly mocking before leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“So if I asked you if I could tie you to this bed and touch you for hours without ever letting you come, the answer would be yes?”

You were _so_ out of your fucking depth it wasn’t even funny anymore. You nodded frantically. 

“Interesting,” he murmured, before slipping his hand down your waistband.

He was good at this too, almost unfairly so. His fingers found your clit immediately, circling it with a gentle pressure that had you arching into his hand within seconds. You tugged at his pants, but he pushed your hand away.

“Not yet. Tell me when you’re close.”

“I’m already close,” you gasped, and it was true. You were so turned on you felt almost sick.

He smirked again. “Of course. I mean really close.”

You closed your eyes and breathed, concentrating on not falling over the edge. He continued rubbing you in small circles, then slipped two fingers inside you, slowly pumping in and out. 

You wanted so desperately to let him keep going, but you knew he’d be disappointed if you didn’t follow his instructions, and you wanted to please him more than anything. 

“Hotch, if you do that one more time…”

He removed his hand, earning a protesting whine, but then he tugged off your shorts as he stood up at the edge of the bed. He stripped off his shirt first, then stepped out of his pants, letting you view all of him.

The lighting was abysmal, of course, but what you _could_ see was… perfect. He was statuesque, almost - toned without being overly large. His shoulders and arms were cut from years of training, his torso taut and, in the flash of the lighting, you could see it sported nearly innumerable silvery scars.

A jolt of horror shot through you, not at his appearance, but at the mental picture of what he’d undergone to earn those. 

“Take your shirt off,” he instructed, blessedly derailing that train of thought, and you obliged.

He situated himself above you again and kissed you deeply, running his hands over your waist and kneading your breasts. You were shivering at the contact, nipples pebbling and goosebumps rising everywhere he touched. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, painfully sincere, and you were thankful the darkness hid your flaming blush.

You realized in your appraisal of his scars that you’d failed to examine _all_ of him, and you reached a hand between your two bodies to grasp his cock.

“Holy shit,” you said, and Hotch actually snorted in amusement. 

He was long, you could tell from pumping your hand up and down his length, and thick enough that your fingers barely overlapped around him.

“I can’t -”

“Yes you can,” he said, moving to align with your entrance. “You’re _certainly_ wet enough.”

Your retort was swallowed by him pushing inside - slowly, and despite his assurance that you could take him, watching for any signs of pain in your face.

There was no pain. In fact, when he pulled back and began to thrust, you were teetering back on the edge of an orgasm already.

You told him as much, thinking he’d instruct you to hold off again, but he just fucked you harder, his cock reaching a spot that shot white-hot pleasure through you every time. The feeling coiled up in your abdomen. You were close, so close, and you clenched instinctively, intensifying the slick drag against your inner walls.

The action earned a groan from Hotch, and that small sound did you in. 

You clutched at his shoulders, reaching your peak, and you swore you saw fireworks explode against your eyelids. You were vaguely aware of moaning his name - a prayer, a plea, you weren’t sure, and he clutched you closer, riding you through it. He murmured praises into your mouth, sounding close to breaking himself.

“Please,” you whispered, once your mental faculties had somewhat returned, “I want to feel you.”

With a few short, stuttering thrusts, he tensed, and you watched his face as he came. The tension left, frown lines lifting, and his lips slightly parted in a hissed intake of breath. He was beautiful, and he told him as much as he slowed, finally rolling off of you towards the middle of the bed.

For a moment, you both laid in silence, listening to the rain and calming your breath. You were floating, both from the endorphin cocktail that flooded your bloodstream and the consummation of the game it felt like you two had been playing for ages. You knew, though, that he was liable to be questioning this change to the fundamental nature of your relationship, so you rolled over and draped an arm across his chest.

“I don’t regret a second of that,” you said, despite it not being a very sexy turn of phrase, because you knew it was what he needed to hear.

He pressed a kiss to your hairline and pulled you closer, and for the moment, that acknowledgement was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so out of practice writing smut that I wrote and deleted literal pages at a time, but I hope the final product is acceptable. Also, this is by no means chaste, but this is as chaste as it gets so... fair warning.


	12. What Happens in Alleyways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, the world doesn't stop on its axis just because you had sex with your boss. You're unsure whether or not that's a good thing.

You awoke to the dim light of the dawn, rain gently pattering on the windows, and the blaring sound of Hotch’s ringtone three feet from your face.

“Jesus christ, old man,” you groaned, blinking your eyes open, “turn your hearing aids up.”

Already sitting up in bed, he paused with the phone halfway to his ear.

Shit. You were being too casual - waking up in his bed, joking with him. Acting like you belonged there. You didn’t know how he felt about what happened, for all you knew he regretted every second and-

“You’re paying for that later,” he smiled before answering the call.

The playful threat filled you with relief before it made your stomach flip, and the memories of last night came flooding back. His body, his eyes, his _hands_ all burned inside your eyelids as if you’d been staring directly at the sun. You’d never been in this situation before - waking up next to someone you’d spent the night with and desperately hoping it was the first time rather than the last. But you’d also never felt your body sing with the white-hot pleasure it did when it was touched by the seemingly unattainable man who did so last night, so. There was that.

The low rumble of his voice brought you back to the present, and you looked up at his face to find it was twisted up in concentration, resignation, and something else.

“I’ll be right down,” he said, standing up swiftly and pulling his work clothes on with practiced speed. “Don’t let anyone touch anything.”

He shoved his phone in his suit pocket and looked at you, still tangled up in his sheets.

“Get dressed and meet me downstairs,” he said, terse. “There’s a body in the alley outside the building.”

“Outside _this_ building?”

“Yes,” he responded, “and there’s a note.”

As he swept out the door, leaving you reeling, you realized what the other expression on his face was. Fear.

***

Hotch had gotten ready and exited the apartment before you had even processed the situation, and your mind was racing a mile a minute as you flung yourself out of bed and scrambled to get dressed. The logical assumption, of course, was that the stalker had left the body. People didn’t just end up dead in alleyways in this part of town, and certainly not in the middle of a rainstorm mere floors from where the BAU Unit Chief slept - not without a reason.

You threw on your coat and boots, forgoing contacts and makeup in favor of your glasses and a hat to cover the tangled mess last night’s tryst had made of your hair. Without even pausing to look in a mirror, you scurried down the stairwell and exited the lobby into the cold October wind.

It was easy to tell which alley the body occupied - there were an excess of thirty people milling in and out of the space to the right of the building. Crime scene investigators, policemen, and other personnel talked in hushed voices. You spotted a clearing in the sea of people and knew that’s where the victim would be, given a wide berth per Hotch’s instruction.

The team hung out at the edge of the circle watching Reid, who was kneeling in front of the body slumped against the side of the apartment building. Moving closer, you could tell he was in the middle of one of his spiels, gesturing wildly while the everyone nodded along. You joined the semicircle that had formed around him and caught the middle of what seemed to be a hypothesis about victimology.

“ -no patterns, obviously, but if we assume similar characteristics would be present in all his victims, it’s hard to discern what statement he could be making. Positing a male in his mid-to-late twenties is statistically most likely, but stalkers of this age group also frequently have some sort of sexual motivation, and if the autopsy is consistent with what we can observe now,” he gestured to the body, “I don’t think that’s the case here.”

Throughout his speech, you’d been scrutinizing the victim - a brunette women who looked to be no older than 20, arranged in a half-sitting position against the wall behind her. There was no blood anywhere you could see, in fact, she barely looked dead at all, likely thanks to the below-freezing temperatures last night that had put a pause on the early stages of decomposition. Pinned to her shirt was a white envelope that bore an ominous message in bold, black ink:

_“For my friends at the BAU.”_

Not hard to guess who had killed this woman.

“Can you determine cause of death, Spence?” Prentiss asked, her arms folded.

“I’m not sure, but if I had to guess…” he used his pen to push the victim’s hair to the side, exposing a neck mottled with stark blue bruises. 

“Anger, then,” you offered, speaking to the psychological drivers behind strangulation, “but I doubt we’ll find any sign of sexual assault. The unsub made it clear that his disdain is directed towards us; it’s not likely that would extend to his victim.”

The rest of the team nodded in thought, but Hotch looked at you in surprise, as if just noticing your presence. As his eyes glued on yours, his face changed, and he grabbed your arm in an unpleasantly tight grip.

“Open the note. I’ll just be a moment.”

Unaware of his boss’ sudden change in demeanor and the vice on your elbow, Morgan gloved up and reached for the envelope. Hotch, meanwhile, unceremoniously dragged you down the alleyway and around to the deserted back side of the building.

“What the _hell_?” you hissed, yanking your arm out of his grip.

“Did you fail to look in a mirror before you came down here?” Hotch’s narrowed stare betrayed nothing but contempt, and you scrambled to determine the implication of his question.

“I’m sorry, did you want me to take a shower before looking at the dead body? I did the best I could, it seemed urgent -”

“No,” he snapped, “I’m referring to the fact that your neck looks worse off than our victim’s does.”

You processed his words for a moment before the implication hit you.

“Are you talking about the hickies?! Christ, Hotch, I’ll get a scarf then. Just give me a second!”

“Please do. I’d like my agents to appear professional, not like they’re college kids coming off a one night stand.”

His words halted your stomp back into the building to grab a scarf, and you turned back, furious.

“ _You_ put them there! How is this my fault?”

“I didn’t think I would have to be this explicit about the fact that I don’t want the fact that we had sex last night broadcast to everyone at the crime scene.”

You gaped at him in disbelief.

“Are you embarrassed or something? I’m sorry if you regret what happened, but you don’t need to lash out at me like this -”

“I’m not lashing out,” he interrupted, “I’m informing you of my expectations for my agents. Is there a problem?”

You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to smack that perfectly raised eyebrow and controlled expression right off his face. But he was boxing you in - speaking to you as your boss and not the man you slept with last night, and as much as you hated him for it, your sense of self-preservation won out.

“There’s no problem,” you mumbled, unable to make eye contact as you slipped past him and around the building.

You made it halfway up the stairwell before the tears started flowing. Had you really thought sleeping with him was going to change something? That he was going to ask you to be his fucking _girlfriend_ , like he wasn’t the chief of your unit and you weren’t a twenty-something intern? For all you knew, he did this all the time. His level of _skill_ in the area certainly made it seem like he did.

That wasn’t true, though, you knew it. He may not reveal much, but you could tell it had been a fraught decision to let your relationship develop the way it had. Perhaps even a decision he regretted now - and it certainly seemed so, given his behavior.

Wiping tears on your sleeve, you fumbled with the spare key he’d given you to his apartment and walked in. You glanced in the mirror by the entrance and your eyes nearly bugged out of your head. Hotch wasn’t exaggerating when he likened the marks to strangulation - indigo smudges, still peppered with the angry red of burst capillaries, circled your throat.

It was a juvenile, possessive, ridiculous display, and Hotch was absolutely right to label it unprofessional. And yet, the thought that you’d walked onto the scene bearing the marks he’d given you filled you with a thrill so intense you had to brace yourself against the entryway table and clamp your legs together.

_Breathe. There’s still a fucking murder scene downstairs._

You steadied yourself and headed for your duffel bag, where you’d thankfully packed a scarf in preparation for the cold snap that was predicted to hit the state this week. Midway through unzipping your bag, though, your eyes landed on his dresser and the devil sitting on your shoulder, buzzing with a deadly combination of anger and arousal, whispered a terrible, reckless idea in your ear.

***

You practically skipped downstairs to rejoin the team, who appeared to be engaged in a lively debate about the contents of the envelope Morgan was holding. After gloving up, you reached out a hand towards him.

“Can I read it?”

He handed it over, distracted by another stream of consciousness from Reid. Hotch took note of your return and glanced in your direction before turning back to the conversation.

You pretended to read the note and waited for him to notice.

You waited all of three seconds.

He whipped his head back so comically fast you struggled to suppress a snort, and you knew _exactly_ what he was looking at. A midnight blue cashmere scarf, nicked from his dresser and wrapped artfully around your neck to cover the bruises, just like he’d asked. The first compliment you’d ever paid him was in regards to this scarf; tentatively whispered when he’d worn it to a chilly 2 am crime scene. He’d accepted the compliment passively, but the optimistic part of you had noted that he seemed to wear it much more frequently after that.

You weren’t entirely sure what statement you were intending to make by wearing it, but his reaction told you you’d certainly succeeded at provoking _something._

Morgan reached back out for the note you were still pretending to read and dropped it in an evidence bag. If he noticed Hotch steaming from the ears next to you, he didn’t say so.

“They’re ready to pack everything up and head back to the lab. Let’s meet ‘em there?”

Everyone nodded in the affirmative and headed back to the SUVs.

“You riding with me?” Morgan asked, nudging your ribs with an elbow.

“No,” Hotch answered for you, an unseen hand suddenly gripping the back of your neck. “She’s not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a lil short, it's more of a transition chapter to actually jumping into this case and Reader's now even more confusing "relationship" with Hotch. Things get kinkier and angrier and more explicit from here, but I'll do my best to tag stuff. Thanks for your patience as always, guys <3


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